In Space, No One Can Hear You Smeg
by Eileen
Summary: My tribute to the British sci-fi comedy classic Red Dwarf, starring the Guardians. Chapter 8: what is reality? That's the question Peter faces when a talking raccoon and an even more verbose tree show up at his apartment and claim he's not a test pilot in the Nova Corps after all. And they need his help to find the rest of the team and bring them home.
1. The Toaster

Rocket was fiddling with something when Peter came into the Milano's small kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee.

"Morning."

"Yeah, yeah." Only after he'd downed the first cup did it dawn on him that what Rocket was fixing looked . . . familiar. "What's that you got there?"

"Just somethin' I found down the disposal. Busted all to hell, but I can fix it."

Then Peter saw the logo with its two intertwined T's. "Oh, no, no, NO! Put it back, now!"

Groot, sitting on the table in his little pot, looked up and hooted in inquiry.

"What's wrong with it?" Rocket translated.

"Not the toaster! It was down in the garbage hole for a reason!"

"It's a toaster!"

"Not this one! It's psycho!"

This declaration made Rocket drop his screwdriver and stare up at the human as if he'd gone insane. "What? No, it's not! It has a basic AI, at best."

"Yeah, and that doesn't stand for Artificial Intelligence. It's Artificial **Insanity**!"

"Okay, are we still talking about a toaster here?"

Peter sighed and sat down. "Look, when I first bought it, the thing was kinda fun. I actually liked having a little breakfast companion. But after a while . . . it got really upset if I didn't want toast all the time. And I mean **all **the time. Like, twenty-six-eight.[1] Eventually it got so fed up with my lack of toast appreciation that it tapped into the ship's electrical systems and started shutting off nonessential systems. Like the ship's gravity. Luckily, I was able to shut it down before it disabled the life support. I smashed it with a rock hammer and shoved it down the garbage hole . . . which somehow never got emptied when they rebuilt the ship."

"Lucky for me, huh?" Rocket made the final connection and started powering up the device.

"NO! For stars' sake, don't turn it on!"

But it was too late. The toaster powered up with a series of lights and beeps that were meant to be cheerful but instead made Peter want to smash himself in the face with a brick. It was a conditioned response.

"Howdy doodily doo!" the toaster greeted them. "I'm Talkie Toaster, your chirpy breakfast companion! Would anyone like any toast?"

"No!" Peter shouted at the offending appliance. "We don't want any toast! No one around here wants any toast! Flark off!"

"How about you, buddy?" Talkie addressed Rocket. "Would you like some toast?"

"Zat all you do, is make toast?"

"Of course not! I can also grill to perfection muffins, bagels, Danishes, waffles, pancakes, buns, rolls, biscuits-"

"Sorry I asked," Rocket muttered. The toaster, oblivious, went on listing its cornucopia of baked delights.

"All right, all right!" Peter cut off the toaster's menu recital and looked around for something big and heavy enough to smash the thing again. "You see? You see what he's like? No reasoning with him!"

"No reasoning with who?" Gamora asked, walking in on this delightful little scene. "Oh, you have a Talkie Toaster."

"You know it?" asked Rocket.

"I had one of these once. Drove my sister crazy. It was fun for a while, but it quickly became annoying. I didn't know you had one."

"I **didn't **have one anymore, till **he **fixed it." Peter glared accusingly at Rocket, who tried to look innocent.

"Well, hello, there!" Talkie said. "I bet a pretty lady like you would just love some nice hot toast!"

"Think again. You can just turn yourself off now." Her tone was perfectly calm and even-**too** calm and even. It was exactly the tone of voice she used just before stabbing a victim through the eyeball.

But Talkie was oblivious to the potential dangers. "Oh, come on! Doesn't anybody want any toast?"

"NO!" they all shouted.

"What is the problem?" a deep voice rumbled. "I had just fallen asleep!"

"Sorry, Drax," Peter said. "I know you were on late watch last night. Hey, maybe you can smash this thing for us."

"What thing?"

"I resent that!" Talkie piped up. "I am not a thing! Now someone better order some toast, or I might get really mad!"

"Ooh, the wrath of a toaster. I'm really scared," Rocket drawled.

"Did you plug it in?" asked Gamora.

"Course I plugged it in! Had to, to get it up and running!"

"Unplug it! Now!"

There was a mad scramble as the four of them (Groot was still sitting there, watching them with something resembling amusement) rushed to pull the connection before Talkie could seize control of the ship's systems. Peter was the closest; as he yanked the cord out of its socket, the lights dimmed a bit, but then came back up again.

"Shit! Make sure he didn't get in there!" Peter did **not **want to have to crawl around reconnecting systems again. Once was enough.

"Running a diagnostic now." Rocket went to work scanning all the ship's computer systems, which he ultimately pronounced Talkie-free. "We're good."

"Good. Let him run on battery power till it dies, then chuck him back in the hole."

"No! Wait! I can be useful!"

"Sure you can." Gamora stalked off to her quarters to meditate.

"I am going back to bed," Drax announced. "If you have any further problems with the kitchen appliances, let me know."

"You hear that, coffee maker? Behave, or else," Peter quipped.[2] He finished his second cup, tossed the empty cup onto the mound of dirty dishes in the sink[3], and went to find his music player.

"Don't understand the big deal," Rocket muttered. "It's a fucking toaster, not a doomsday machine. Ah, well, think I'll go find something else to take apart and put back together again."

He got all the way to the hold before he realized he'd forgotten something-or rather, some**one**-vital. Groot was still on the table, and he was probably furious at being left behind.

"Sorry, buddy! Didn't mean to leave-" Rocket stopped dead in the doorway as a very strange sight met his eyes.

"For the love of cake," Talkie wailed, unable to defend himself against the whipping tendrils beating the spark out of him, "make him stop!"

"Groooooooo!" the sapling howled, smashing down on the hapless toaster again and again.

"Guess he doesn't like toast," said Rocket, hoping that when it was all over, the pieces would at least be big enough to use for something else.

Something that would be kept far, far away from the ship's electrical systems. Or anything else, for that matter.

* * *

[1] Referring, of course, to the Xandarian twenty-six-hour day and eight-day week.

[2] The coffee maker, not possessing Artificial Intelligence, did not reply.

[3] Which will come into play in the next chapter.


	2. The Bath

Peter Jason Quill thought he knew everything there was to know about women. He'd romanced dozens of females, of all ages and species, from one end of the galaxy to the other. He'd never, though, had what you would call a lasting relationship with one. And definitely not one that lasted for more than a week or so.

Therefore he was unaware of one basic fact of female biology, one that very shortly would make itself known to him in a big way.

It was the sound of smashing crockery that woke Peter out of a sound sleep, at-he strained to look at the clock-four forty-seven in the morning. What was going on? Were they under attack?

He reluctantly dragged himself out of bed and followed the direction of the sound to the galley, where he found Gamora, clad in a blue flannel robe, systematically smashing all the dishes in the sink one by one.

"You're up early," was all he could think to say.

She turned on him with fury in her eyes. "Do none of you know how to wash a dish? Or do you think they magically wash themselves?"

"Yeah, I was gonna get to that . . . sometime when I wasn't sleeping."

"All I wanted was a cup of tea!" she raged. "Could I find a cup? NO! Because you refuse to clean anything in this filthy, disgusting hell-hole!"

"Okay, listen," he said, trying to defuse the situation. "It's late, well, it's early, we're tired, let's just go to bed-separately, of course-and we'll talk about whose turn it is to do the housework in the morning. Okay?"

It was the tone more than the words that got to her. She dropped the mug she was holding back into the sink and sat down, one hand holding onto the small of her back. "I just wanted a cup of tea."

"I don't think I have any tea."

That just set her off again. "You don't have any **anything**! Look at this!" She threw open the fridge door so hard that it bounced back. "You keep your shoes in the fridge?"

"Keeps 'em nice and cool. They're in a sealed plastic bag!"

"I don't care! This whole ship is filthy! I can't live like this!" Now she looked like she was going to cry-but that was impossible, wasn't it? Gamora never cried. At least, Peter had never seen her cry. Then again, he'd only known her a month or so.

"Would you two," a gruff voice interrupted them, "kindly restrict your lovers' quarrels to **normal business hours**, and not the middle of the night?"

Peter turned and saw Rocket standing there with a pissed-off expression on his furry face. "Hey, sorry we woke you, uh . . . little misunderstanding here-"

"Misunderstanding?" Yep, Gamora was back in rage mode. "You are a thoughtless, inconsiderate, disgusting, chauvinistic pig!" Then she suddenly winced and held her hand to her back again, like it pained her.

"Ah," Rocket said, "so that's what it is. Come on, Quill, let's get outta here, now."

"Wait a second, I'm just-"

"**Now**," the raccoon emphasized, and practically dragged Peter out of the room. "You don't try to reason with 'em when they're like that. Just stay outta her way."

"Like what? What's wrong with her?"

"Sheesh, for a guy who's supposed to be such a ladies' man, you don't know much about women, do you? It's her time."

"Her time for what?"

"You know. Her time of the month."

Peter just stared at him blankly.

"Oh, for the love of-" And he briefly but thoroughly explained the particular factor of female biology that was in play currently. "You get it now?"

"Yeah," Peter said, though he wasn't sure that he did. "So she's moody and cranky because she's in pain?"

"Yeah, but she'll never admit it."

"So what can I do to help?"

"Maybe ask her what you can do for her. If there's anything she wants."

"Other than clean dishes?"

"You could try washing them once in a while!"

"All right, fine! I will! Then I'll ask her what I can do for her! Happy?"

"Thrilled," Rocket quipped. "I'm goin' back to bed. See ya in the morning-if you're still alive."

That did not exactly fill Peter with a lot of confidence, but he was already up, so he might as well do it now.

Gamora was still sitting in the same spot when he came back into the galley. "Hey . . . sorry about before. You're right, I should clean up after myself. I'll make you your tea."

She looked up at him. "I thought you didn't have any tea."

"I might. If I do, it's all yours."

This seemed to satisfy her, and she nodded and rubbed her back again.

"Need some help with that?" He went to her, but held back from actually putting his hands on her until she gave the okay. After all, he wanted to live.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Okay, then. I'll just get these dishes done . . . the ones that are left, anyway. By the way, I notice that you don't have shoes on, so don't move till I've had a chance to sweep all this up."

It took him the better part of an hour to finish both the dishes and the sweeping, but he didn't mind. He told her about his childhood with the Ravagers, how they taught him to fight, to shoot straight, even to build his own weapons. He expected her to tell a few stories of her own, but she didn't seem to want to talk about her own past.

" . . . and Yondu said, 'The hamster goes in the **other** end, you dumbass!' Took him almost an hour to get it out of there. And I was on PD for two weeks for being stupid."

"Only you," she said, "would think of building a hamster gun, and then doing it the wrong way around. You were lucky to have someone who cared, even if he didn't show it much. That **was** pretty stupid, though."

"Yeah, it was. Well, I can't find any tea, but maybe this'll help." He set a small plastic container in front of her. "It's cottage cheese with pineapple chunks."

"Pine . . . apple? What is that?" She lifted the lid off and stared at the creamy substance inside.

"It's a fruit. It's sweet, and crunchy, and . . . just try it. If you don't like it, I promise that on our next supply run, I'll be sure and pick up some tea for you. As much as you want."

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"Because you're-" No, he wasn't supposed to talk about her body processes, was he? "In a bad mood," he finished, "and I just want to help. Go on, try it."

She did, and it wasn't bad. The sweetness of the fruit made the bland milky stuff palatable. Before she knew it, the entire container was empty.

"Any more surprises?" she asked.

Peter grinned. "Maybe. Tell me something."

"Mmm?"

"Is there anything you really want? Besides a major cleaning job, which I promise I will get right on as soon as I've had a few more hours' sleep?"

"Sure you will."

"I will. I really will. I promise. So . . . anything?"

She thought about it. "The one thing I would really like," she said, "is . . ."

"Yes?"

"Is . . ."

"What?"

"A bath."

That wasn't quite the answer he was expecting. "A bath?"

"I haven't had a real bath since I was a little girl. I haven't had the luxury of being able to just sit and relax in a tub full of hot water. If I had a million units, I would buy myself the biggest, fanciest, most beautiful bathtub in the galaxy, and fill it with bubbles. All different colors of bubbles. Then I'd just sit there and play with the bubbles, all day, and all night."

"Well, I don't have a million units," he said, "but I'll see what I can do. Anything else?"

"Maybe . . . do they still make Star Tacks?"

"What are those? Some type of weapon?"

She gave him a look. "They're cookies. They're rich, delicious cookies, only made on one world, only sold at one time of the year. I had them once, and I would sell my soul to taste them again."

"Okay, I'll . . . look into it. I'm going back to bed now. You should, too. I mean, your own bed."

"I can never get back to sleep once I'm up. I'll just sit here for a while longer."

"Okay, then. I'll . . . see you in a couple hours." Peter shuffled back to his own room, knowing that she could take care of herself. He thought about what he'd have to do in the morning (well, later in the morning), and hoped that the All-World Market was still open early. Once he finished the cleaning, he had some shopping to do.

* * *

"She wants **what**?"

Peter had left for the market right after breakfast, dutifully cleaning up after himself and wiping down the rest of the kitchen for good measure. He had brought Rocket with him because the raccoon was better at bargaining than he was, and because he claimed he needed a bigger pot for Groot to grow into. Once they were safely away, Peter had filled him in on the true purpose of their mission, prompting this incredulous response.

"A bathtub. A nice one, but not too expensive. Something I can hook up to the ship's water supply without having to tear everything apart."

"Oh, sure. Cause they're just giving those away."

Peter lowered his voice. "Don't tell anyone, but I've got some money that I was saving up for a new gun."

"Like, how much money?"

"Not here! I'll tell you when we're alone. Enough. I hope." The market was visited by beings from all worlds, most law-abiding . . . some, not so much. Announcing that he was in possession of a large sum of money would be like strapping a target to his back. "Let's go look at pots first. We probably should have brought him with us, so he could choose one himself."

"And spoil the surprise? No way! Besides, he won't be using it for long enough to really get attached to it. But we want a good one anyway."

"If you say so."

They came away with a good-sized pot in a sunny shade of yellow, which Rocket insisted was Groot's favorite color.

"Can he even see colors?" Peter asked.

"Course he can! He loves anything yellow. And we can keep it around after he's done, in case he needs it again. Maybe we can even keep stuff in it. Well, here we are."

"What? Here we are what?"

"The bath department. Go get Princess Emerald a tub already."

"You're not coming?"

"Nah, I'm not gettin' involved. I give you bad advice, she doesn't like it, she might kill both of us. If it's just you, I can claim plausible deniability and live."

"I don't think it works that way . . ."

"Just go, will ya?" The raccoon gave him a shove through the door of the bath fittings shop. Peter stumbled into a free-standing shower unit in the middle of the floor and almost fell on his ass.

"I was going to ask if I could help you," the shop clerk said, coming over, "but it looks like that goes without saying."

"Thanks." Peter brushed himself off; no harm done. Except possibly just a bit, to Rocket, later on.

"What can I do for you today?"

"This is a little embarrassing . . ." And he explained his situation as succinctly as he could.

"Ah, I see. You need something . . . economical, and yet still serviceable."

"I want it to be **nice**. She deserves nice."

"Well, all right. Let me show you our economy range."

The first one was too small. She might have fit into it if she scrunched her knees up, but then it wouldn't be comfortable. "No. Sorry."

The next one was collapsible, folding into a pouch that could be stowed in a closet or under a bed. A good idea in theory, especially considering the limited space that five people now shared, but the material looked thin, and Peter was afraid that it might spring a leak at an inopportune moment. "Water and shipboard electrics . . .yeah, not really a good mix. What else you got?"

"This one is made from the carapace of an Arcturan mega-beetle-"

"No. No dead animals."

"Well, how about this lovely model over here?"

But Peter's attention was drawn to a beautiful claw-foot tub sitting off in a corner by itself. It looked like marble, although it was probably ceramic over stainless steel, and the color was a lovely shade of green just a bit darker than Gamora's skin color.

"Oh, baby." He ran his hand over the finish; smooth as silk. The edge was scalloped and looked like her head would rest perfectly against it. "How much is this one?"

"Erm . . . I don't think you want that one. This was originally a custom order for a client who unfortunately was not able to take delivery."

"Changed his mind, huh?"

"No, er . . . bomb in his personal transport."

"Oh." Peter gave it another long, loving look. It was perfect, just perfect. "I'll take it off your hands for you. How much?"

"I don't think-"

"How much?"

The clerk quoted him a figure.

"**How** much?" If he'd heard correctly, that was their entire grocery budget for a month.

"As I said, it was custom-built. I could perhaps knock ten percent off for you, but that's the best I can do. Perhaps one of our less expensive models?"

Peter thought about it. He looked over his shoulder at the rejects, and then back at the wonder before him.

_It's so beautiful, _he thought. _She'd love me forever if I brought this home. She might even let me scrub her back._

"I didn't need a new gun anyway," he said out loud.

"Then you'll take it?"

"I'll take it. Oh, one more thing: do you have anything that makes bubbles?"

* * *

Getting the tub onto the ship was not the problem. Getting Gamora **off **the ship while he brought the tub on board, so as not to spoil the surprise, was the problem.

Fortunately, Rocket was a bit more cooperative this time.

"Yeah, sure I'll take her out."

"And you'll get, um, the other thing we discussed?"

Now Rocket looked a little annoyed. "You know how hard it is to get Star Tacks out of season? Even in season, they ain't cheap."

"But you can do it."

"Please. It's me you're talkin' to here. I can get anything. It'll cost ya, though."

"Sure. Whatever." Peter still had a **little **cash left from the bathtub expedition. "How much?"

For the second time that day, he was quoted a monetary figure that was light-years beyond what he expected to pay. **"****What?"**

"Told ya it'd cost ya. If it's too much, I could call off the deal. Maybe she'll be happy with just the tub. It **is **nice."

For a moment, Peter actually considered telling Rocket not to bother with the Star Tacks. That amount of money was just too much to pay for a damn cookie. But then he pictured Gamora's face when she saw the tub **and **the cookies, spread out on a fancy plate-wait, he didn't have any fancy plates, did he? On a regular plate, then, with a napkin under them; that would do.

It might not totally make up for the fact that she was in pain, but hopefully it would go some way towards making her feel better.

Peter sighed and handed over the last of his cash. "Oh, well," he said. "And I heard Taste of Terra had real Twinkies, too."

"Twinkies?" Rocket looked at him quizzically.

"They're, um, a kind of snack cake with cream in the middle. Haven't had one since I was a kid. They're hard to get out here. Maybe they'll have some more when we get paid for our next job."

"Yeah, maybe," said the raccoon, with that look in his eye that meant he was putting together a plan. "You just get that tub where it belongs, and leave the rest to me. And while I'm gone . . ."

"Yeah?"

"See if you can coax Groot into his new pot."

* * *

The first task was easy enough. Peter enlisted Drax's help in getting the tub filled with water, and then setting it up where it belonged.

"I do not understand," Drax said, "the attraction of baths. What is the point of just sitting there?"

Peter shrugged. "Some people find it relaxing."

"And Gamora is one of these people?"

"Yeah, I guess so. She's not feeling too well right now, so I wanted to cheer her up."

"She is ill?"

"Not . . . exactly. She's having her . . . um . . . time of the month."

Drax nodded in sudden understanding. "The monthly secretions. I remember it well. So you wish to provide her with the ritual cleansing?"

"No, I just wanted to give her something that'll make her happy. I asked her what she wanted, and she said a bath. Oh, the bubbles! We have to add the bubbles!"

"Bubbles?"

"Over there."

They added lots of bubbles to the water, set a heating element under the tub so the water would stay warm, and then Peter remembered the second thing he was supposed to do.

Transplant Groot to his new pot.

"Oh, boy."

He found the tiny tree creature, who was not so tiny anymore, down in the engine room where Rocket bunked down. The yellow pot was there as well, along with half a bag of the soil-like nutrient mix that went in the pot.

_Here goes nothing, _Peter thought. "Hey there, Groot."

"I am Groot?"Groot spread his upper branches and looked up.

"I noticed you're getting a little too big for your pot there. Now, see this nice big yellow pot over here?"

Groot rotated to the left as much as he could. "I am Groot?"

"That's gonna be your new home, at least till you're big enough to start walking around on your own." Peter heard the condescending tone in his voice and cringed. Just because Groot was the size of a toddler didn't mean he was one. He still had his own brain. "Um, I'm gonna just move you over as soon as you're ready. Okay?"

Groot bent his head to the side quizzically. "I am Groot?"

"Yeah, Rocket's not here right now. I told him I'd do him a favor and help move you. I promised. We can do this together, right?"

"I am Groot!" Groot reached out with his tiny hands and grasped the edges of his current pot.

"Oh, come on! Help me out here! Five seconds, and you'll be in a nice new pot, and everything will be fine! It's yellow; Rocket said that was your favorite color."

"I am Groot."

"Is that a yes? Come on, buddy. Look, I know you're not happy about being stuck in a pot. I'd feel the same way. But it's only for a little while longer. I bet you'll only be in that pot for a week, tops, before you're ready to come out. You can put up with it for a week, can't you? Now come on."

Groot looked at the yellow pot. He looked at Peter's face, silently pleading for him to work with him here. And he slowly but deliberately worked his roots free of the smaller pot.

"I am Groot," he said triumphantly.

"There we go! Okay." He gently picked Groot up by his small grasping hands and lifted him up, setting him gently into the new pot. He added enough of the soil to hold the sapling securely. "There. How's that?"

"I am Groooooot," he sighed, turning his face upwards.

"Oh, right. Sun lamp! I'll go get it." Peter started across the room to retrieve the device, but his foot came up against the old pot, and he pitched forward. He put his arms out in an effort to break his fall, and one of them struck the yellow pot, which rocked back and forth wildly. Just as it was about to overbalance and tip onto the deck, a strong hand caught it and set it upright.

"I am Groot!"

"You are welcome," said Drax. "Are you all right, Quill?"

"What? Yeah, I'm fine." He slowly got to his feet, brushing himself off. "Thanks for the assist."

"Is there anything else you require?"

"Yeah. A plate. The nicest one we've got. And one of those fancy napkins that I stole from the state dinner on Xandar. Excuse me-I mistakenly tucked into my pocket and brought home with me, totally by accident. One of those."

Drax nodded and disappeared upstairs. Peter, once he had regained his equilibrium, grabbed the sun lamp and brought it over, setting it close to Groot's new pot.

"There you go, buddy. Enjoy."

"I am Groot."

Now there was nothing to do but wait for Rocket and Gamora to return. Peter popped the tape from his Walkman into the main console, so that everyone could have a little music. Groot swayed back and forth happily under the sun lamp; Drax, on the other hand, was resistant to the power of the tunes.

"What is it for?" he asked.

"What's it for? It's music, man! It makes you feel good!"

"How?"

Peter had to admit he'd never thought about it before. "I dunno. It just . . . speaks to me. I mean," he added hastily, "that listening to the music helps me think about things. And dancing! Dancing's great!" He showed off a few of his best moves, but Drax was not impressed.

"What is the purpose of this . . . movement?"

"Just to feel good! To have fun!"

"Fun?"

He heard voices approaching. "Great, they're back. Everything's ready, right?"

Drax nodded. "The plate has been prepared."

"Good, thanks. Let's hope Rocket was able to get what goes on the plate."

It was obvious that Gamora was in a mood again. When she entered the main compartment and heard the blaring music, she put her hands over her ears. "Could you possibly turn that down so I can hear myself think?"

"Oh, sorry." He turned it off. Groot, who was still dancing, noticed the sudden silence and looked up.

"Hey, you got him in the pot!" Rocket said. "Thanks!"

"It was really a team effort." Peter sidled up to the raccoon and lowered his voice. "Did you get that thing we discussed?"

"In the bag."

"There's a plate in the other room. Put them on that. Nicely!"

"What are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna show Her Highness my little surprise."

"What are you two whispering about?" Gamora demanded. "You're not planning anything illegal, are you?"

"Of course not! I have something to show you, if you'll just come with me."

"Oh, no. What have you done now?"

"Don't worry, it's a nice surprise. You'll like it."

"I'll believe that when I see it." But she reluctantly allowed him to lead her out of the room and into her private quarters . . . where she saw the bubble-filled tub in all its glory.

The expression of amazement that came over her face was quickly followed by one of absolute joy. "You . . ." she said, momentarily at a loss for words.

"You said you wanted a bath," Peter said proudly. "I made it happen. With a little help from our friends."

"Can I-can I try it?"

"Sure, it's yours. Enjoy yourself. The heating coils under the tub will keep the water warm for as long as you want, but don't forget to switch them off when you're done."

"And you even remembered the bubbles!"

"And that's not all. When you're done-and take as long as you like; we'll wait for you-there's another surprise for you in the lounge."

She looked at him seriously. "Why are you doing this?"

"I promised to take care of you guys. I know you're . . . not at your best right now, and I want to help you feel better. Whatever it takes. I could help scrub your back for you, if you want."

"Don't push it."

"So, privacy, then?"

"It would be appreciated."

"Fine. We'll be in the lounge when you're ready."

Tempting though it may have been to stick around and catch a glimpse of Gamora unclothed, Peter knew that to do so was risking a serious beatdown, and he left her to her bubble bath in privacy. He went to the small lounge area to see how Rocket was getting on with the cookies.

Star Tacks didn't come in an ordinary cardboard box. What was sitting on the coffee table was a tin of some brightly colored metal, like the cookies his mom had bought around Christmastime. The label, which seemed to be embossed on the box itself rather than printed on paper and glued onto the metal, was in a fancy script that looked like the process itself had cost a good hundred units.

"So those are Star Tacks," he said, looking at the open box. "What do they taste like?"

"Try one," Rocket suggested.

"No! They're not mine!"

"You paid for 'em!"

"I bought them for **her**! They're **her **cookies! If she says I can have one, I'll take one, but we'll wait for **her**!"

"Yeah, about that . . ." Rocket brushed what looked suspiciously like cookie crumbs out of his fur.

"You didn't."

"I only had one! Not like she's gonna count them!"

"That's not the point! We're a team here! We respect each other's property, and we **ask **before we borrow something!"

"You gonna snitch on me, Quill? Huh? You gonna tell her I took one?"

"Well . . . no. Not if she doesn't ask. You'd better just hope that she doesn't ask!"

"No problem! We'll just spread 'em out so it looks like there's more! She'll never know the difference!"

"All right, but don't take any more!"

"They really are somethin' else. You should try one."

"No!" Peter carefully arranged about a dozen cookies on the plate and then sealed the box up again. "No one is having any more of these till she says we can! Drax, what are you doing?"

"If we are celebrating," the giant said, "we should have proper decorations. I have made a ceremonial banner." He stepped back and let Peter get a good look at it. In large hanging letters crudely cut from colored paper, it read HAVE A FANTASTIC PERIOD.

Peter buried his face in his hands. "Get that down before she sees it."

"Is there a problem?"

"Yeah, uh . . ." How to explain it? "See, all cultures aren't so . . . open . . . about the monthly secretions. I think Gamora doesn't like being reminded that she has weaknesses. I mean, think about the amount of pain she must be in to even feel it."

"I had not thought of that."

"Just the cookies will be fine. Thanks for trying to help, though."

"Is there nothing else I can do?"

"Right now, no. Sorry. Once the party gets going, though, you're more than welcome to join us."

"But the banner is . . . inappropriate?"

"Something like that. It's okay, big guy, we know you care." Just to show that there were no hard feelings, Peter helped take the banner down, and then he folded it up and hid it in a storage cubby. "Now what have we got to drink around here?"

"Funny you should mention that," said Rocket, pulling out a bottle of Altairian blood wine. "I had a little money set aside, too."

"A little? Blood wine isn't cheap! You been holding out on me?"

"Nah, just saving judiciously for the proverbial rainy day. Metaphor," the raccoon added, before Drax could ask. "I know there's no weather in space. Okay, so we'll be broke all around till our next job, but we get to enjoy ourselves. I think that's worth it."

"Yeah, we deserve it!" Peter pumped his fist in the air in triumph. "Let the good times roll!"

In due time, Gamora appeared, hair still wet from her bath and the blue robe wrapped around her, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of leg. Despite the tease, Peter was determined to be a perfect gentleman, for probably the first time in his life.

"Did you enjoy your bath?" he asked.

"Mm-hmm. The bubbles were nice."

"Wait till you see what we have for you next! You are going to **love** this!" He turned around, picked up the plate of cookies, and presented it with a flourish. "Ta-daaaah!"

If the look on her face when she'd seen the marvelous bathtub was something unexpected, it was nothing compared to her expression when she beheld the wondrous Star Tacks, laid out in neat lines, actually before her and a real thing. It was as if she'd asked for a unicorn horn (though she wasn't likely to even know what a unicorn was), and been served up one on a silver platter, in the middle of a bed of greens and-

She was saying something, and he'd missed half of it. "What?"

"I said, what did you do?"

"Do?"

"What kind of trouble are you in, that you go to these lengths to distract me?"

"No trouble at all!" Was that really what she thought of him? "I just wanted to do something nice for you, to make you feel better. We're a team; we're a family. It's up to us to take care of each other out here. That's all I wanted to do for you." He gave her his most sincere look. "Are we good now?"

She looked from the plate of cookies up into his eyes. "Oh, yes. Yes, we are."

"Great! Let's have a party, then!" He pressed the button, and music flooded the room. "C'mon, Gamora, dance with me!"

"Oh, I couldn't-"

"Come oooooon!" He grabbed her by the hand and led her to the middle of the floor. And once she got going, she wasn't that bad of a dancer. Still needed some practice, but there'd be plenty of time for that.

Eventually, Peter got tired and took a break. And it was then that Rocket approached him.

"Saved the best for last." Rocket presented him with a familiar white and yellow box.

"You didn't."

"I sure did! And you know what, Pete? You deserve 'em."

Peter stared at the box he held in his hands. Real Twinkies, all the way from Earth. He almost didn't dare open them, but he had to taste one, just to prove they were real.

He slipped a finger under the flap of the box, lifting it slowly, anticipation growing every second. Gradually he worked one end free, and opened the box bit by bit. The rustle of cellophane within was driving him crazy.

Finally he opened the lid and looked at the golden treasure within. They were smaller than he remembered, but maybe they had just looked bigger because his hands had been smaller then.

Gamora could keep her fancy cookies. This was his guilty pleasure, and he was going to savor every sweet, spongy bit.

He unwrapped the first Twinkie, lifted it to his mouth . . . and stopped. No, not yet. There was something else he had to do first.

Drax was sitting off by himself, but when Peter approached, he looked up.

"Here," Peter said, holding out one of the Twinkies. "You've earned this."

"What is it?"

"It's . . . you know what, just try it. It's really good."

Drax nodded and started to take a bite of the Twinkie while it was still in its wrapper.

"No, no! You-you take the wrapper off first." He peeled it and handed it back. "Okay, **now **try it."

He did so. "What is this . . . amazing food item you have brought me?"

"It's called a Twinkie. They're highly valuable on Earth." Okay, so maybe that was an exaggeration, but since it was unlikely they'd visit Terra any time soon, he'd never find out. "I've got more."

"More?" The warrior's face lit up like a supernova. "I must have another!"

"Oh, sure. Just one more, though." Peter went back to where he'd left the box and took out two more of the wrapped goodies, but he noticed that it left a larger gap than it should have.

_Wait a minute. I had one, Drax had one . . . there should be six still in the box! _

"Looking for something?"

Peter saw Rocket sitting by Groot's pot, holding up two of the precious Twinkies. "Hey, those are mine!"

"Twenty percent finder's fee."

"Finder's fee? I found them! You just picked them up!"

"Relax, Star-Geek. I bought another whole box." He tapped the hidden storage compartment under his seat. "Save 'em for later."

"Save what for later?" Gamora came over to find out what was going on. "What is that?"

"It's called a Twinkie. It's a snack food from Terra."

"Is it good?"

"I'll bet it's not as good as your cookies."

"Trade you," she said, holding one of the precious Star Tacks out to him.

"Really?"

She smiled. "Really. You were so kind to put all of this together for me."

"Well, I hope you're not expecting a party **every **month," he quipped. "I don't think our finances could take it."

"That's all right. I'm happy that you care enough to put my happiness first. Now since you paid for these wondrous creations, you should have one."

"On three?" He counted to three, and they traded in the same instant.

The cookie was even more delicious than advertised. Well worth the exorbitant price tag, though, as he had said, he couldn't afford these every month. "You're right, they're awesome."

"I have already put the rest of the box away," she said. "I have counted each and every one remaining. If anyone touches them without my permission . . . there will be pain."

"You guys hear that?" Peter said around a mouthful of cookie. "No sneaking cookies!"

He was already plotting how to get his hands on another one without her knowing. They were just that good.


	3. Snowbound

"So there we were," Peter Quill, a.k.a. Star-Lord, told his teammates, "stranded on an ice planet, our heating system down, no food, no water, and barely enough power to send a distress signal. It was my first flying lesson, and it was very nearly my last."

* * *

He remembered it well. He'd been sixteen at the time, and thought he knew everything, but his time in the snow had quickly taught him that he didn't know anything about anything, least of all staying alive.

It had all started out to be a great day. Standing at the edge of the hangar, looking at all the captured ships lined up in rows before him, made him feel like the king of the universe. Today he would learn to fly one of these babies, and then he could go anywhere he wanted.

"You ready for this?"

Peter looked up. Yondu was standing beside him, beaming like a proud father. "Yes, sir!"

"Pick one. Any one ya want. I'll have the boys get 'er prepped."

Peter looked around until he saw the one he wanted. "The orange and blue one."

"You sure you don't want somethin' a little tamer yer first time out?"

"Nope."

"Okay, then. The orange and blue one it is."

"So who's gonna take me out?"

Yondu just grinned at him.

"No way! Really?"

"Don't trust nobody else to look after my boy. Now c'mon, I'll teach ya how to run the pre-flight checks."

Twenty minutes later, the ship warmed up and ready to go, Peter sat in the pilot's chair, running down the final checklist.

"Now, don't forget," said Yondu, "Take 'er nice and slow with this one, cause she's got a lot of power. Don't rush yourself; take yer time with her."

Peter twisted his head and looked up at him. "Isn't that the same advice you gave me when you and the guys took me to that whore on Sakaar?"

"Don't be a smartass. Now start the ignition, but don't move nothin' yet. I'll tell ya when to go."

Peter pressed the ignition switch, feeling a thrill of anticipation, much like his visit to the Sakaaran prostitute.

"When that light turns green," Yondu said as he strapped himself into the co-pilot's seat, "then you can go. Not till then! And strap yourself in, cause this baby moves fast!"

The boy nodded and watched the light. He was so busy with the straps that he almost missed when it turned green. As soon as he saw it, he stomped on the gas and yanked the gear shift back.

"Easy, easy! Don't overload it!"

Once they were away from the _Eclector_, Peter eased up on the throttle and took a look around. Space was beautiful. He'd always thought so as a boy, watching the stars on Earth, and even now that he was up among those same stars (or were they? Well, some of them had to be the same), he still felt awed at the very sight of them.

"What the hell are you gawkin' at?" Yondu demanded. "Let's get started. We'll practice starting and stopping first, then some turns, till you get used to 'em. Take it nice and easy, now."

It turned out to be a lot easier than he thought it would be. Turn the wheel, go easy on the pedals, watch your mirrors. Peter had thought he'd be nervous with Yondu standing over him barking orders, but it was . . . strangely comforting.

At last, the older man said, "Okay, turn 'er around now. Let's head home."

The boy nodded and made the turn without any trouble. He was watching where he was going, and taking his time.

The planetoid that came out of nowhere and slammed into the ship was in no way his fault.

"Shit! Look out!" Yondu tried to take the controls, but in the confusion he steered the wrong way. The planetoid bounced off the hull and sent the tiny ship into a spin, out of control and spiraling down into the planet below.

Yondu was knocked off his feet and across the cabin.

"Dad!" Peter called out. He started to unbuckle his straps, but Yondu raised his head and called out, "No! You stay put, I'm fine! Just try to keep 'er level! Keep the nose up 's much as you can!"

"How?" Peter cried out, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. Ravagers didn't fall apart when things got tough.

"Pull it back, easy, till the ship's level, then hold 'er there. Try to set 'er down gently-"

But the wildly pitching ship was too much for the boy to handle. The ship spiraled down onto the planet, which was covered with a thick-looking snow field, and rolled twice before coming to a stop just a few feet shy of a mountain that Peter thought had to be a thousand feet high.

It was the snow that had saved them from any major damage. If the terrain had been clear, the ship would have cracked up on impact, but rolling around in the fluffy snow had cushioned the major part of the impact. However, the landing gear was now buried at least six feet in said snow, and even at maximum power, the thrusters couldn't blast the ship clear.

"It's too deep," Yondu pronounced. "Go out there and try to dig us out."

"Me? Why me?"

"All right, we'll take turns! You go first." He handed the boy an absurdly tiny-looking shovel and the emergency parka from the supply cabinet. "Bundle up, now, it's cold out there."

"And what will you be doing while I'm digging?"

"Sending a distress signal. And hopin' it finds someone friendly, cause we're sittin' ducks here."

Peter didn't really want to go out into the blizzard, which looked almost to be blowing sideways. But he knew better than to defy a direct order. Besides, he had the feeling that Yondu was hurt worse than he let on. The sooner they got out of this hell hole, the better.

* * *

"I always liked snow days," Peter told the others. "My mom and I used to pop popcorn and watch old movies. I would sit in her lap-I was real little then-and when the snow stopped, we'd go out and make a snowman together. Good times."

"Yeah, yeah," Rocket snarled. "Happy times. So how the hell did you get off the ice planet?"

"I'm getting to that! Well, I went out, and I dug. But it seemed the more snow I moved, the more blew right back into my face. It was hopeless. Dig out? I could barely stand up. So after about, oh, four or five hours, I went back inside."

* * *

"How's it comin'?" Yondu asked him.

Peter could barely speak, he was shivering so hard. "C-c-c-can't," he managed to get out from between blue lips. And it wasn't any warmer inside the ship than outside.

"Can't what? What's wrong with-" Then he saw the boy caked in snow from chest to boots. "Holy crap, you're soaked straight through! Get outta them wet clothes right now, 'fore you freeze to death."

"I-I-I . . ."

Yondu sighed and helped the kid off with his jacket. That at least freed his arms somewhat. "Impact knocked our heat off-line. Had to divert almost all the emergency power to send the signal. But I'll build us a nice big fire, and you can get yerself warmed up."

"S-s-s-s-sor-ry," the boy hissed.

"Sorry? What for?"

"S-s-s-s-screwing it u-up." The boots would not come off. They were so wet and heavy that they felt like bricks attached to his feet, and his frozen fingers would not move. "M-m-my fault."

"No, it's not," Yondu insisted. "It was an accident. Coulda happened ta anybody. Now you come here and dry off."

The towel he was holding was a bar towel that had been in the kitchen area, and it looked barely big enough to dry Peter's face, let alone his whole body, but it was better than nothing. He rubbed himself down, feeling returning slowly to his extremities. At least now he could bend them.

"Got some more bad news for ya," Yondu pronounced gloomily. He yanked as hard as he could, and Peter's left boot finally came free. "We got hardly any food to keep us goin' till help gets here. Jar of cocktail olives, half a coffee cake, tub of cake frosting, and some after-dinner mints." With a wet slurp, the right boot came off. Now the boy was sitting around in wet socks, but there was nothing to be done about it.

"That's it?"

"There's a tin of dog food in the cupboard. And a cup of instant noodles."

"Well, I guess we know what gets eaten last, then," Peter said with an impish grin. "I hate instant noodles."

"Anyway, we just ate a couple hours ago, so we should be good fer a while." Yondu started gathering whatever flammable materials he could find in the ship's small compartment. "We need wood. This won't last any time at all. Go find me somethin' made of wood. Even if it's small. I know there's not much, but if it means our lives, we burn it."

Peter got up, though it seemed to take him forever to do so. His body just did not want to obey his commands. And he wasn't the only one. He had seen the way Yondu was cradling his left arm against his chest, though the older man would never admit the possibility that he might be (maybe badly) hurt.

And it was all his, Peter's, fault. No matter what Yondu said, the teenager knew that he had been the one at the controls. He should have been watching out for rogue planetoids instead of congratulating himself on a successful first lesson before it was even over.

He searched the ship for flammable materials, of which there weren't a whole lot. He found a cutting board in the kitchen, along with a few wooden implements, but precious little else. The sleeping quarters yielded sheets and blankets, and for a moment he wasn't sure if he should rip them up for kindling or wrap them around himself.

He compromised: the blankets, he kept, but he ripped the sheets into long strips that could be useful for bandages or thrown into the fire to burn. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.

He slogged back to the main compartment and dropped the load at Yondu's feet. "There. That's everything. Can I have some of the mints now?"

"That's all?"

"That's all there is. Go look for yourself."

"Nah, I believe ya."

"What's wrong with your arm?"

"Nothin'." Yondu turned away to tend the fire.

"C'mon, let me see it."

"It's fine!"

"It's broken, isn't it? That's why you made me do the shoveling."

"All right, maybe I banged it a little in the landing, but it's fine! You worry about keeping warm!"

"We should splint it. Like we did for Razu's leg that time. At least that way you won't hurt it worse."

"I can take care of it."

"Dammit, let me help you!"

Yondu turned slowly, and Peter had the sudden sinking sensation that he was about to get the beating of his life. He had **never **talked to the man like that, ever.

"Boy," the man said at last, "yer lucky it's just you and me here. You ever contradict me in front of the men, it'll be the last thing you ever do, you hear me? Yer not too big for me to take over my knee!"

"I won't," Peter promised. "But you gotta take care of yourself, too! You're the captain! The men need you! Let me help you with that, please. Then I'll do whatever you want, and I won't complain a single bit. I promise."

Yondu appeared to be thinking it over. "Fine," he said at last. "But don't use no more o' those sticks and rags than you have to. We need 'em to burn."

"I know." Peter spent the next few minutes carefully fashioning a splint to hold Yondu's arm in place. He then tied a strip of sheet around the man's neck in a sling. "There. All done."

"Damn, boy, yer hands are like ice! You sit close to that fire, now. Ain't warmed up yet from all that shoveling."

"I'm okay," Peter said, but he obediently sat as close to the fire as he dared. He could feel its heat, but his body was as cold as ever. He wrapped the blankets tighter around himself and tried to relax.

"Here. You've earned 'em." There was a rattle as Yondu set the plastic container of after-dinner mints down in front of the boy, who sighed with anticipation and popped the top.

"Take it easy with those, cause that's all we got. You scarf 'em all down now, you're left with the dog food and the noodles."

"What about the coffee cake?"

"Coffee cake's mine."

"That's not fair!"

"I'm the captain. I say what's fair. Maybe I'll let ya have a bite or two, we'll see."

"Can I at least have some frosting on top of the dog food?"

"Yeah, why not? Stuff makes my teeth hurt anyway." Yondu poked the fire, which was still too small to give off much heat yet. "We'll wait a while longer an' then have some more. Make it last."

"Mm-hmm." Peter already had half the mints tucked into one cheek. He let them dissolve slowly, trying to savor them. He really, really didn't want to have to eat dog food.

* * *

"I am Groot!"

"Yeah, good thing you weren't there," Rocket said to Groot. "You woulda been broken up for kindling."

"No," Peter said. "Yondu wouldn't have done that. He wasn't unnecessarily cruel."

Gamora, who had witnessed the younger man's brutal beating at the hands of those who had raised him, said nothing. She shouldn't have been surprised, having grown up with a merciless father figure herself, but somehow it affected her worse than all the terrible things that had been done to her.

"Were there no trees on this planet?" asked Drax.

Peter sadly shook his head. "It was all ice and snow, far as I could see. We would have had trouble collecting the wood, anyway. Between his broken arm and me half-frozen to death, we weren't in any shape to be out there.

"So a few hours passed, and we started getting hungry. Like, really hungry. And extreme hunger will drive people to do things they wouldn't normally do."

"You ate the dog food, didn't you?" said Rocket.

"Yeah, I ate the dog food. Not like I had a choice."

* * *

"And you can take that look off yer face, boy, like yer doin' something disgusting. We're just tryin' to stay alive."

"Yeah, but . . . can't I have the noodles instead?" Peter looked down at the plate in front of him. It may have been topped with vanilla frosting and served up with a side of cocktail olives, but there was no question that the brown, quivering mass at the center of the plate was not meant for human consumption.

"Take too long to cook over the fire. You gotta eat somethin'. Finish that, and I'll let you have some noodles."

"All of it?" The smell alone was enough to make him want to gag.

"Half. Now go on, boy. Ya gotta eat."

Peter closed his eyes and tried to imagine a backyard barbecue and a nice, juicy lump of hamburger. It was gonna be delicious . . . delicious . . . delicious . . .

He put as small a bite as possible in his mouth, chewed as little as he could, and swallowed it quickly.

"Ugh! Now I know why dogs lick their butts. It's to take away the taste of the food."

"Quitcher whinin'." Yondu was munching on a chunk of coffee cake. "One more bite."

"Trade ya?"

"Nice try. One more. Then we'll save the rest."

Yeah, right. As if the boy would ever, ever touch that stuff again.

He held out for almost eight hours before he unwrapped the plate and wolfed down the disgusting mass. He was shaking, but whether from cold, hunger, or fatigue, he wasn't sure anymore.

_They've gotta be missing us by now_, he thought. _It's been almost a whole day! I hope the signal gets through somehow._

He passed out an hour later. When he woke up, Yondu was burning the emergency parka.

"No luck yet?" Peter asked.

"Nope. Course, we gotta hope the right people answer the call."

"Right people?"

"There's three ways this can go. One, we get picked up by our own guys, and everythin's fine. Two, signal gets picked up by someone . . . unfriendly. I gotta lotta enemies out there, boy. They find us here, alone and helpless, we're done for."

"What's the third possibility?"

"Third is, Nova Corps finds us. They'll pick us up, save our lives, but once we're okay, they'll put me in jail somewhere. There's quite a few outstandin' warrants fer my arrest."

"What about me?"

"You, they'll prob'ly put in some foster home. Maybe it'll be nice."

"No!" the boy protested. "I don't wanna go with strangers! I wanna stay with you!"

"Better hope it's our guys that find us, then."

"Yeah."

Yondu was watching the boy closely. He wasn't shivering anymore, and that was a bad sign. He might not last another night out here. If they weren't picked up soon . . .

"Talk to me," Peter said. "Take my mind off it."

"Talk about what?"

"Anything. I don't care. Um . . . what was your first time like? Was it bought and paid for too?"

"No!" Yondu snapped, and turned away. So much for that, then, Peter thought, but then the older man said, "She was on the work detail with me. Her name was Kartha. We had some free time at the end of the day, and we just started foolin' around, and one thing led to another, and we ended up goin' all the way. Next day, they took 'er away, I never saw her again."

"What happened to her?"

"Only one thing happened to folks who disappeared like that back then. I mourned her and moved on. There wasn't time to grieve proper. Always work to do."

"How old were you?"

"What difference does that make?"

"I just wanna know. How old were you?"

Yondu sighed. "Twelve."

"Twelve? **Twelve**?" Peter hadn't even known that girls existed when he was twelve. It was only a few years ago, but it seemed like a lifetime.

"Things were diff'rent back then! We didn't know if we were gonna survive the day, much less live to grow up! Seize the moment, cause it won't come again!"

"Yeah, but . . . twelve?"

"You just never mind 'bout that now." Yondu laid one of his two remaining blankets over the boy. "Get some sleep. Wind's died down a bit; I'll try diggin' 'er out again in the morning."

"With one arm?" Peter inquired sleepily.

"I can do it with both hands tied behind m'back! You just go to sleep, now, and stay warm."

"What if we never get out of here?" the boy asked. "What if we . . . you know . . ."

"We won't," Yondu said decisively. "I'll do whatever it takes to get us out of here. Don't you worry."

He was worried enough for the both of them.

* * *

Peter didn't tell his friends any of this, of course; it was too personal. He just said that they stayed up talking for a while, and then he went to sleep.

"When I woke up," he said, "I was so cold I couldn't even move. And Yondu was . . ."

"Yeah?" Rocket was leaning in with anticipation.

"He was . . ." Peter couldn't tell them. He knew how it would sound, and it hadn't been that way at all. "He was trying to keep me warm."

* * *

What Yondu was doing, when Peter gradually awoke feeling like his limbs had been replaced by blocks of ice, was lying beside him, trying to use his own body warmth to keep the boy from freezing to death.

All the blankets were now wrapped around Peter, but he couldn't feel them. He couldn't feel anything. He might as well have been a brain in a jar, for all the sense he had of his own body.

"Dammit, boy," Yondu whispered, "don't you die on me! Don't you dare die, that is a direct order! Y'hear me?"

But Peter couldn't answer. His lips and tongue were as frozen as the rest of him. He could only lay there in silence as the older man rubbed down his arms and legs, trying to get them working.

"Dammit, Pete, do something! Lemme know yer still alive! Don't do this t'me, boy!"

"Nnnnnnnhhh," Peter managed. His lips still couldn't form words, but the noise was enough to draw Yondu's attention.

"There we go! Okay, now! Stay with me. Jes' stay with-"

Suddenly there was a thunderous whine from outside, too loud to be the wind. It could only mean one thing: someone had found them.

"You stay there," Yondu said, a moot point since Peter couldn't move anyway, "I'm gonna go see who's payin' us a visit."

On his way to the door, he grabbed a small energy weapon, just in case the visitors weren't the friendly sort.

Peter still couldn't feel his fingers or toes, but his jaw was loosening up a bit. "Whuzzit?" he slurred, trying to get feeling back in his tongue and lips.

"You stay right there, boy. Lemme handle this."

"Ohaaaay."

"And try ta stay awake! I'll only be a minute!"

"Mm-hmm." But Peter's eyes were already closing on their own. The more he fought to stay awake, the more sleep tugged at him like a tractor beam, trying to drag him under. But if he fell asleep now, he'd never wake up again. He knew that.

Of course, if there were enemies outside, he might as well let go and make it easy on himself.

There were voices from outside, but they sounded conversational, not angry or fearful. So, probably not enemies.

Nova Corps?

Oh, no!

The next thing Peter knew, someone was lifting him up off the floor.

"No," he moaned. "Don't take me away . . ."

"Pete, it's us!"

He knew that voice. "K-Krag?"

"We're gonna take you home. You'll be fine. Nice landing, by the way," he added, almost grudgingly.

"**Crash** landing."

"Ya did fine," said Yondu. "Kept us in one piece. Not bad fer yer first lesson."To the other men he said, "Get him back to the ship. Get him warm, right away. Too bad we have to leave this baby here. She's a good little ship, she is."

"I could blast 'er free from above and then tow 'er," Kraglin said.

"You do what you gotta do. But we can always get more ships. The kid's more important. Get him someplace warm and safe, soon 's possible."

"You're hurt, too," Peter reminded him.

"This? This ain't nothin'. You coulda died."

Kraglin was examining the splint that Peter had made. "Kid did a good job," he admitted. "Should heal right up."

"Yeah," Yondu said. "He did. I told ya that boy was worth keepin' around."

* * *

"So all's well that ends well," said Rocket. "'Zat it?"

"There's a little more to the story," Peter said, "but not much. A little epilogue. We saved the ship without any major damage, and when I was up and around, I went to work on the minor repairs."

* * *

Peter was suspended on a platform under the ship, sealing the hull plates, when Yondu entered the hangar.

"Looks good," he said. "You didn't have ta do that."

"Someone had to," the boy said, sliding out from under the ship. "Besides, it's my fault in the first place."

"Boy, we been over this! It ain't your fault! It was an accident, coulda happened to anyone!"

"Well, it's done, anyway. Ship's good as new. Repaired, restocked, and repainted. I even fixed the squeak on the seat-tilt control."

"You did all that on yer own?"

"Someone had to. Might as well be me."

Yondu took a good long look at the tiny ship, which really did look good as new. "Well, then," he said. "She's yours."

"What?"

"As a reward fer all that hard work. You've earned it." He put his arm-his good arm; the other was still healing-around the boy, since no one was watching. "Good job, Pete."

* * *

"And that," Peter finished, "is how I got this magnificent vessel that we now call home." He sat back in the pilot's chair and smiled to himself.

"What is the point of this story?" asked Drax.

"Oh, that's easy," said Rocket. "Always have provisions stocked so that if you crash-land on an ice planet, you won't be forced to eat dog food."

"Don't worry," Peter told him. "If we're ever in that situation, I promise you, I'll eat the dog food."

* * *

Far out in space, a dark cruiser hung. Its crew, all female, waited anxiously to hear what their captain would say about the latest development.

The image had come in about an hour ago, sent through secure channels from a source who refused to identify him- or herself. The captain had taken one look and retreated into her private quarters, locking the door behind her.

Now, however, she emerged and with a wave of her hand, brought the image up onto the main screen.

"There he is," she said. "There the bastard is. After all these years, I will have my revenge!"

"Revenge for what, Lady Kartha?" asked her second in command.

"Over forty years ago," she began, "this man, Yondu Udonta, betrayed me and left me for dead. I swore then that I would have revenge upon him, and now the hour is at hand! Set course for the Oonarian system at once."

"But, Mother-"

"That is an order, Maira! You will obey it or else!"

"Yes, ma'am." Maira sat at the main control console and set the course into the ship's computer. An order was an order.

Still, this wasn't at all the way she had imagined meeting her father. She just hoped that she would get to tell him who she was before he died.


	4. Polymorph

"Well, that was a big waste of time." Rocket sighed and dropped into the co-pilot's chair. "We went all the way to Ataxalon for nothin'!"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Peter Quill, who preferred to go by the handle Star-Lord, said. "They did give us a nice meal to make up for the fact that the bandits were all dead by the time we got there."

"If they even existed at all," said Gamora. "Notice they didn't show us any bodies."

"The food was excellent, though," Drax pointed out.

"I am Groot." Groot was now free of his pot, standing a little taller than Rocket.

"I know they didn't give us any money!" Rocket grumbled. "I'll find us another job, one that actually pays!"

"Okay," said Peter, "everybody strap in. Ready for take-off."

A red light blinked on the console. Peter stared down at it; it wasn't anything wrong with the engines, or environmental controls, or anything else that would cause them to break down before they left orbit, so he ignored it for the time being. Besides, he couldn't read the tiny writing underneath, anyway.

Tiny writing that, when properly decoded, read CAUTION; UNKNOWN LIFE FORM DETECTED.

* * *

It was a day later that the intruder made itself known, and that was purely by accident.

Peter was rummaging through the supply cabinets looking for the last box of mac and cheese, his go-to comfort food, when he spotted something strange.

_What, _he thought, _is this doing here? _

Hidden in the back of the cabinet, behind Gamora's favorite cookies (which everyone else was forbidden to touch on pain of death), was a troll doll, just like the one he'd sealed in the orb before handing it over to Yondu. But that was impossible. There couldn't have been two of them, could there?

"What the hell?" He picked it up, and it squirmed in his hand, almost as if it were alive. With a cry of disgust, he dropped it. It skittered across the floor, changing into first a baseball and then a cassette tape with legs, and slid under the cabinet out of reach.

Peter stared at the spot where it had disappeared, mouth open slightly. "No way! No krutacking way!"

He went back upstairs, forgetting his original reason for coming down. This was too important. The others had to know.

"Polymorph?" Drax asked, his face contorted in confusion.

"I've only heard of them," Peter explained, "never seen one myself. They're supposed to be shape-changers who suck out negative emotions. Things like fear, anger, jealousy . . ."

"Yeah, none o' those on this ship," Rocket quipped. "What's it look like?"

"That's the thing. It can look like anything it wants. They have a kind of psychic connection with their victims, which they use to find the shape that will provoke the strongest negative emotion, and then they suck it out."

"And then what?"

"The only one I ever heard of belonged to an emo trader, a man who had a way to extract the emotions, bottle them, and sell them to the highest bidder. Polymorphs generally don't work alone; this one must have gotten away from the trader and stowed away aboard our ship."

"So how do we kill it?" asked Gamora.

There was a gleam in Peter's eyes. "We're not gonna kill it," he said. "I figure by now, the trader's noticed his little pet is missing. How much you figure he'd pay to get it back?"

"Aw," said Rocket, "I wanted to kill it! I ain't killed anything in months!"

"How do we capture it, then?" asked Drax. "If it can read our thoughts, it will know what we are planning. Do you have any percentage of a plan?"

"Not yet," Peter told him. "I need to do a little more research first."

It was a big risk, but he had to take it. On the one hand, the man had threatened to kill him and his whole crew over the Infinity Stone.

On the other, he was the only person Peter knew who had any actual experience with a polymorph.

Maybe he wouldn't answer the call. Maybe he was out. Maybe-

A familiar blue face filled the screen. "Boy," said Yondu, "you got some nerve."

"I know," Peter said quickly. "I owe you. Big-time. But I need a favor."

"What makes you think I'm gonna give it to ya?"

"I know you did business with an emo trader a while back. I know you know how to get in touch with the underground emo trade network. We have a polymorph loose on our ship, and I thought his owner might want him back."

The reaction was immediate. Yondu threw back his head and laughed. "Boy," he said, "I ain't pest control. You got a critter loose on yer ship, **you **figure out how ta deal with it!"

"He might be so grateful," Peter said, "that he gives us a reward. Which, if you help me, I'd be willing to share with you."

"Yeah? How much?"

"Twenty percent."

"That's it? Boy, when we brought you on board-"

"I know, I know, they wanted to eat me. You stopped them. How long are you gonna keep throwing that in my face?"

"Long's it takes to get it through yer thick Terran skull that you owe me more'n just twenty percent. Fifty."

"Fifty? We've gotta eat too, you know! We didn't even get paid for our last job!"

"Not my problem."

"Twenty-five."

"Guess you don't wanna get rid of it that bad."

"Fine, thirty-five."

"Forty."

Peter sighed. "All right, fine. Forty it is. Now how do I trap the thing?"

"You gotta lure it out first."

"How do I do that?"

"Think bad thoughts. It's drawn to negative emotions. You get enough o' those in one spot, it's like a dinner bell to that critter. Then you . . ."

He outlined the rest of the plan, and Peter dutifully took notes. The others wouldn't like it, but hopefully the payday would be enough to make up for it, even minus Yondu's forty percent.

Yeah, they weren't going to be happy about that, either.

* * *

"FORTY PERCENT?!"

"He wanted fifty! He wouldn't budge for less than forty!"

"But **forty**? Forty percent of our take goes to that madman? Pete, he tried to kill you!" Rocket was adamant. "You can't trust that pirate to be straight with you!"

"That pirate," Peter said, "raised me. I owe him a lot."

"You owe him nothing," Gamora said softly. "We can rid ourselves of this vermin without his help."

"Yeah, sure, we can do that. We can blast it into itty-bitty pieces. But if we **capture **it and sell it back to its owner . . . think of the riches!"

"I am Groot?"

"Where's it now?" Rocket translated.

"Ship's scan says it's down in the hold. So we need to go down there and draw it out."

"With negative emotions."

"Like you said, shouldn't be hard for this crew. Who wants to go first?"

They all looked at him. Even Groot.

"Oh, hell, no!"

* * *

_Rassa frassin' bunch of ingrates, _Peter thought, trying to work up a good bout of anger. **_My _**_ship, dammit! Besides, I don't have half the issues they do! Well, except maybe Groot. And that Yondu! The nerve of him, charging us forty percent for a plan that probably won't even work! And even if it does, there's no guarantee that he'll be able to find the buyer and strike a deal with him. And I'm supposed to be grateful to him cause he didn't let his crew eat me? _

Was it working? Was he angry enough yet?

"Here, polymorph," he called out. "Come on out, you little son of a slug. You snuck onto the wrong ship, buddy!"

Something moved in the far corner of the hold. Peter took a deep breath and summoned up feelings that he hadn't dared touch for twenty-six years.

_It's all __**your **__fault, Momma! Why'd you have to go and die on me? I needed you, and you left me! Everything bad that ever happened to me happened because you died and left me all alone! You promised that my daddy would come back for me, but he never did! Cause he doesn't care about us!_

_It's really __**his **__fault for leaving us! Yeah, that's it! Why didn't' he stick around? What was more important than his own family? I don't even know the man's name! He's supposed to be some high galactic mucky-muck, but he can't be so great if he __**abandoned **__his wife and child! I hope you're dead, you bastard! If you're not, I just might kill you myself!_

Oh, he was good and worked up now. There it was!

"Come and get me, you little-!" He spread his arms wide, inviting it in.

The thing skittered out from under the cabinet, and then it seemed to flow upward, taking shape . . .

"Come on!"

The thing solidified into a very familiar form.

"You wanna know why your daddy never came fer you?" the Yondu-clone asked. "Cause you weren't good enough for him! You sad little sack of shit! You weak, pathetic excuse for a Terran! We shoulda eaten you!"

"Shut up!" All the rage, all the anger he'd been suppressing all these years, came bubbling to the surface. "You **stole **me! Took me from the only home I had to be your **slave**! I hate you! I always hated you!"

The Yondu-thing smiled, and then a small, sucker-like tendril extended and attached itself to the center of Peter's forehead. There was a slurping sound.

"Hurry!" Rocket led the others down to the hold, but by the time they got there, the creature was gone, and Peter lay helpless on the floor.

"Hi, guys," he said, a big smile spreading on his face. "I'm just soooo happy right now! I'm gonna lie here and think about how great life is!"

"Oh, wonderful," said Gamora. "The creature's gone and he has no anger. What now?"

"We could sing songs," Peter said, as he got to his feet.

"Yeah, I don't think so."

"Another of us should attempt to draw the creature out," said Drax. "Guilt is a strong emotion, is it not?"

"Yeah, I guess-oh, hell, no!" Rocket shook his head so fast his ears bent in the wind. "If you go down, we don't have anyone stronger to overpower the thing!"

"Perhaps power is not needed here, but trickery. Which I believe is your specialty?"

"Well, when ya put it like that . . ."

"I am Groot."

"I dunno, Groot. It might not be attracted to your emotions. Let us handle it for now."

"I am Groot," which almost sounded like a sigh.

"Maybe if we all get happy," Peter said dreamily, "it'll go away! C'mon, everyone, sing with me!" And he began singing his off-key rendition of "Rainbow Connection," except that he didn't remember half the words and was forced to hum most of it.

"Someone shut him up already!" Rocket snapped.

"Well, we've scared it off now," said Gamora. "We'll try again later."

So much for Plan A. Maybe Plan B would have more luck.

* * *

Drax went to his tiny cabin and pulled from a drawer the only image he had of his wife and daughter. Sitting there looking at the faded holo, he tried to summon up feelings of guilt over their deaths, but since Ronan's death, most of the guilt had been replaced by satisfaction that the being responsible would never hurt anyone else ever again. But a small portion remained, and he nurtured this, building it into a tasty morsel to lure the polymorph out of hiding.

_My fault, _he thought to himself. _I was not there to defend them when Ronan came. I should have been there. I let them die!_

There was a small noise from the vents up above. Was it here?

"My fault," he said aloud. "I am to blame. They died because of me."

A slurping, bone-crackling noise.

"Yes," the beast said, in imitation of his beloved wife's voice. "It is your fault. Why did you leave us? Why did you let us die?"

"I . . ."

Now it became his daughter. "Don't you love us, Daddy? Why did you go away? If you'd stayed, we wouldn't have died."

Drax hung his head. "Yes. I should have stayed. It is my fault, all my-"

The creature extended its sucking tendril and slurped out his guilt before he could alert the others. When they arrived, he was sitting on the floor, the holo beside him.

"What do you idiots want?" he demanded.

"Yup," said Rocket, "it's been here. Aaaaand . . . it's gone again. Gams, you're up."

She glared at him. "**Never** call me that."

"Oh, come on, guys! Everything is awesome!" Peter started to sing again, but Drax jumped up and clapped a hand over the overly-happy Star-Lord's mouth.

"Enough of your foul vocalizing! If you had not let it get away the first time, we would not be in this situation! I should snap your neck for that!"

"But you won't," said Rocket hopefully, "cause we're all friends here, right? You wouldn't wanna kill a friend, would you?"

"Save it," said Gamora. "He's got no guilt. Just keep him away from Glee-Lord while I draw it out again."

"I am Groot!"

"He says we should all stick together till we catch the thing," Rocket translated. "For our own safety. He's got the . . . you know, the thing."He didn't want to say what it was in case the polymorph was listening.

"All right," she said. "Just stand back. And . . . think happy thoughts. I want to be the strongest source of negative emotions in the room. If you distract it, the plan won't work."

"Not even twelve percent of it?" Peter asked.

"Let me kill it!" demanded Drax. "If it has a neck, it can be twisted!"

"We want it alive, remember?" Rocket said. "No money for a corpse."

"Will you idiots be quiet?" Gamora looked from one to another, with fire in her eyes. "I need to concentrate!"

She sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the room and closed her eyes. What was a good emotion to draw the polymorph? It would have to be strong, to tempt its already partially sated hunger.

_I just get so . . . frustrated with them all!_ she thought. _They bicker and argue, and I never get a moment's peace! I wish I could just . . . make them go away!_

There was a slurp and a crackle of bones.

"They are holding you back. Inferior life forms should not be allowed to live."

She looked up. The polymorph had assumed her father's form, and the sight filled her with both dread and anger. But which was stronger?

Pure, white-hot rage won.

"You made me a murderer!" she shouted at the Thanos-clone. "You cut me open and did terrible things to me! I will never again do your bidding! I will not hurt my friends!"

"They are not your friends! The small furry one would sell you out for the price of a cup of coffee! The large one is too stupid to be useful for anything but smashing. And the one who calls himself Star-Lord, who says he loves you? Do you think he really means these tender words? These words that he has said to so many before you? Do you really think you two can have any sort of a life together?"

"You know nothing of love! You have never loved me! When have you ever said those words to me?"

"Is she crying?" Peter whispered to Groot, who looked puzzled.

"I have never said them," the polymorph/Thanos said, "because you are not worthy of my love."

With an inarticulate cry of rage, Gamora sprang to her feet and rushed forward . . . and the polymorph's sucker attached itself to her forehead.

"Now! Hit it now!" Rocket ordered Groot. "Before it's finished feeding!"

"I am Groot!"

"She's in the way? Well, move, then! Just do it!"

Groot shuffled around to get a better angle on the polymorph, but before he could raise their secret weapon, it shrank and disappeared into the walls again. Gamora collapsed onto the floor, and Peter caught her.

"Well, I'm glad that's over!" he said. "Aren't you?"

She stared at him blankly. "Don't . . . don't touch me," she said, pulling away, and she crawled some distance away from the others, curling herself into a ball and sighing.

"Why didn't you get it when I told you?" Rocket demanded of Groot.

"I am Groot!"

"We're zero for three now! It's up to us now, buddy. When I draw it out, you gotta make sure you take it out! I don't care who's in the way! Now come on!"

They left the room in search of the creature. After a moment, Drax left as well, and then it was only Gamora, still sitting on the floor, her face in her hands, and Peter, standing there feeling awkward.

After a moment, he came up to her and got down to her level.

"Need a hug?"

She looked up at him, wetness shining on her emerald cheeks. And then she put her arms out to him.

Curiouser and curiouser, to quote Alice. And the thing was still out there. What more damage could it wreak?

* * *

Rocket and Groot trailed the thing down to the engine room, where the two of them usually bunked down.

"Okay, buddy," Rocket said, "it's down to us now. We can't screw this up. I'll draw it out; you blast it, and don't worry about me being in the way. You freeze it, we pack it up for the emo trader, we get our money."

"I am Groot."

"I know you will. Now all we need is a strong enough emotion to draw it to us. Gonna have to go for the big ones this time. Some good old-fashioned fear oughta do it. This ain't gonna be pretty, so don't panic, buddy."

"I am Groot." Groot hefted the liquid nitrogen gun and nodded. He was ready, and there would be no further mistakes. It was now or never.

Only one thing truly scared Rocket. For once, he didn't try to block out memories of the facility where he was experimented upon, but let them come.

_Pain . . . blood . . . knives . . . fear! There it is! Let's work on that a little, till it's big enough to draw the creature out. Then-BAM!_

He closed his eyes and tried to picture white walls and steel examining tables. Machines with lots of shiny attachments on flexible arms, ready to descend on tender flesh at a moment's notice. Needles and vials and scalpels, oh my!

It was working; he could feel something reaching into his mind, sensing the fear and trying to find the right shape to bring it to fruition. Rocket slowly opened his eyes.

One of the nameless, faceless doctors stood before him, unidentifiable instrument in hand.

"Now!" Rocket shouted to Groot. "Blast it!"

He jumped out of the way as a frosty stream of liquid nitrogen hit the beast. It writhed, changing shapes in an effort to escape the blast, but in the end, it overpowered the polymorph and froze it solid.

"I AM GROOT!" the tree hooted in triumph.

"Yeah, you did great," said Rocket. He took a moment to compose himself. Only a nightmare, only a dream.

He hit the button for the shipwide PA system. "We got it, folks. You can call its owner to come and take it home."

* * *

Two days later Yondu showed up with the emo trader, a Darbian named Kesto. The moment the Ravager captain came through the hatch, Peter was all over him.

"Heeeeeey, Yondu! It's so good to see you!" He threw his arms around his adoptive father, leaning on him heavily. "I love you, man! Have I ever told you I love you? There, I just did! I'll say it again: I love you. I love you!"

Yondu looked at the others. "Is he drunk?"

"No," said Rocket. "He's lost his anger, and now he's useless. They're all useless!"

"Call me useless one more time, rodent!" Drax thundered. "I will strip each tiny hair from your tiny body, and then eat you!"

"So you'll need an extraction?" asked Kesto.

"What's that?"

"I remove the specific emotion strands and re-insert them. It's a relatively painless process, but I will need some preparation time."

"Sure, take all the time you need."

"And my standard fee applies."

"Fee?" Rocket was indignant now. "We're returning your little pet here, and you're chargin' **us** for it?"

"I'll pay the damn fee!" said Yondu. "Anything to get him off me! Take it outta my forty percent."

"Fine with me."

Several hours later, the polymorph was thawed and in a containment unit, and everyone was back to their normal selves. The re-implantation of their stolen emotions had been as painless as promised, but left them with a lot of awkwardness.

"I . . . apologize," Drax said to Rocket, "for wanting to eat you. You are my friend, and I would never hurt you."

"Aw, thanks, big guy. No hard feelings."

"Hey," Peter said to Gamora, "about earlier . . ."

"We were not ourselves," she said. "Don't mention it."

"Yeah, sure."

"To anyone. Ever. Or I will kill you slowly."

"Um, okay." He smiled nervously and backed away from her slowly. "Oh, hey, Yondu. Thanks for your help."

"Glad to see yer feelin' better."

"About that . . ."

"Oh, don't worry 'bout it. Happy to help out."

"See you, man."

Kesto picked up the containment and then looked around. "Where's the other one?"

The Guardians stared at him as one. "**Other one**?"

"They're a breeding pair. Where one goes, the other follows."

"Oh, great." Rocket picked up Tianne, his oversized gun. "You do realize we'll have to charge you double for this?"


	5. Terror World, part 1

It had been one hell of a party. Who knew that the Talarians had such potent booze? They'd been so grateful to the Guardians for fixing their defensive shields that they'd thrown the biggest bash the planet had ever seen, complete with the best food, the finest music (though Peter had thought it was nowhere near as good as his mix tapes), and of course the best drinks the world could offer. He'd gotten well and truly drunk, and today he had the mother of all hangovers.

Oh, well, not like he had any plans today anyway.

Suddenly there was a knock on his door.

"Go 'way!" he called out.

"Peter," said Gamora, who he was sure had drunk just as much as he had last night but who was somehow unaffected by it (and he hated her for that), "there's a call for you."

"Take a message."

"It's the Ravagers."

"Tell Yondu he can kill me tomorrow!"

"It's not Yondu. Whoever it is, he insists on speaking to you personally."

"Now?"

"Yes. Now."

Peter sighed and slowly dragged himself up out of bed. It was going to be one of those days, wasn't it?

"Who is it?" he asked. "And what does he want?"

"I don't know. He'll only speak to you."

"Strange. I wonder where Yondu is?"

"Maybe they partied too hard last night, too. This guy definitely looked the worse for wear."

"Was he missing an eye? Or an ear? Did he have any facial scars?"

"No, he just looked really battle-weary."

"Huh."

Rocket was asleep in the pilot's chair, with Groot both monitoring the autopilot signals and keeping an eye on his best friend. There was no sign of Drax; still sleeping off the party, probably.

Peter pressed the button that released the hold on the call. "This had better be important."

"Nice to see you too, bro."

He squinted at the screen. "Razu? What's going on? Where's Yondu?"

"That's why I called you. He's . . . he's been taken."

"Taken? Taken how? By who?"

"We don't know. Here's what happened: Yondu and a landing party went down to this little planetoid to recover some mineral wealth that was supposed to be close to the surface. Only there were no deposits. It was a setup, and the moment Yondu set foot on that planetoid, he and the others were attacked. We've got some footage, but it's hard to make out."

"Hang on a moment." Peter felt around under the console until he found the hidden drawer with the painkillers. He popped the top of the bottle and dry-swallowed two. Almost immediately, the throbbing pain began to back off a bit, and he could face the out-of-focus images without fear of his head actually exploding.

"Okay, I'm back. Send it through."

The next thing he saw was grainy black and white video of the Ravagers being ambushed by armored figures in full-face helmets who seemed to be brandishing spears and long knives.

"Hold on that," Gamora said suddenly. The picture froze. "Can you enlarge that insignia on the uniform?"

Peter squinted at it. The insignia resembled an upside-down triangle with horns. He didn't recognize it, but Gamora was looking pale.

"It can't be," she said. "I thought they were a myth."

"Who were?" asked Razu.

"They're called the Chrysalias, after their ship, the _Chrysalis_. They're fierce fighting women who never give quarter, never surrender, never give up until every last one of their opponents is dead. I've never run across them myself, but what I've heard isn't good. If the Chrysalias have Yondu, he's probably already dead."

"No," Razu insisted. "They took him alive. They needed him alive for a reason. You have to get him back!"

"Why don't you just send down another team?" Peter asked.

"That planet . . . there's something weird about it. It was like it was changing the more they were there. The men are spooked-they won't go down there."

"Where's Kraglin?"

"In the med bay, in a coma. Pete, he's the only man who came back alive. These bitches fight dirty."

"So I've heard," Gamora said, "I don't know if we're in any shape to help you out here . . . we've just come off a tough engagement on Talar, and we're still pretty wiped out."

"Yeah," Peter said. "What she said."

"We'd be willing to pay you."

"How much?" A small furry head suddenly thrust its way between them.

"Rocket!" Peter exclaimed.

"Hey, free food's okay, but we could really use some of the old moolah, y'know?"

"Could I have a moment with my team?" Peter asked Razu. Without waiting for an answer, he pressed the hold button. The video and sound were then cut off, and they could speak freely.

"I am Groot?" The tree-creature had left his chair and was inquiring about what was going on.

"Team discussion," Peter explained. "Go find Drax; he should be in on this."

"I just don't see what the problem is!" said Rocket. "They're willin' ta pay. We could use a job. Why're you in my face?"

"It's not about money! These people are my family! We have to help them out!"

"What is this emergency that summons me from my slumber?" Drax was here now. And he didn't sound too happy.

"Morning, sunshine. We've got a mission."

"No, we do not!" Gamora insisted. "It is far too dangerous for us to even attempt!"

"I'm not leaving the only father I've ever known to die!"

"He may already be dead!"

"Then we'll recover the body, but I'm not giving up on him!"

"Besides, we can take these pansies!" Rocket chimed in. "Spears and knives ain't nothin' against a good blaster! They won't know what hit 'em!"

"Who will not?" Drax asked. "Who is it that you are fighting?"

Briefly Peter outlined the situation as it stood. "We don't know yet if this is a rescue mission or a recovery mission, but if these woman warriors are as fierce as Gamora says they are, it ain't gonna be easy. But together, we can do it. We can do anything!"

Yeah, as a rallying cry it was pretty lame. But Peter was tired, sore, and dehydrated, and under the circumstances, it was the best he could do.

"Are you sure," asked Drax, "that you can trust this-this Ravager?"

"Razu? Yeah, we were like brothers. He was a teenager when I came on board, and we kinda grew up together. Guys, we have no time to waste. On the admittedly slim chance that Yondu's still alive, we've gotta get down there now and bring him back in one piece. What do you say?"

Drax appeared to be considering the matter. "I have not had a truly formidable opponent in some time. I would welcome the challenge."

"Even if it gets us killed?" Gamora demanded.

"Then we die together, and we die well. Yes, Quill, I will join you in your rescue or recovery mission."

Peter shrugged. "Looks like you've been outvoted, Gamora. Of course, you **could** always stay with the ship while we go and fight these Chrysanthemums-"

"Chrysalias," she corrected him.

"Whatever. If you stay behind, you'll never know if you could have beaten them. You'll never know how truly badass you are."

He gave her one of his cheeky grins, and that did it. She could resist his words, but not that cheeky grin. "All right," she said at last. "I'm in."

"Good." He released the hold button. "Razu, we'll do it. I'll contact you when we're on our way back."

"I'll pay you double if you bring him back alive."

"Don't worry. We will."

Razu didn't look so sure. "Be careful," he advised. "That place is . . . **weird**."

"Weirder than the bird people on Fazawwk?"

"Bad weird. Really bad. You lot just watch yourselves, all right?"

"Smoke me a kipper," Peter said, "we'll be back for breakfast."

"What in hell's a kipper?" Razu asked, as Peter cut off the call.

"Well," he said, "you heard him. Let's watch our step down there. Be prepared for weird. Bad weird."

"Don't worry," said Rocket. "Weird never met Tianne here." And he pulled out a huge cannon of a gun that was bigger than he was.

"Groot? You've been quiet. You're with us, right?"

Groot tilted his head to the left, then to the right. "I am Groot?"

"He wants to know how much they're paying us," Rocket translated.

"Oh, uh . . . I forgot to ask."

"You always ask for the money up front!"

"Not if it's family! I don't care about the money! Let's just get in and get him out, and worry about staying alive!"

"Amateurs," Rocket grumbled, and he vacated the pilot's seat.

* * *

Razu had sent the coordinates of the little planetoid. From above, it didn't look like much.

"There's a large open space about five klicks south of the life readings," Gamora reported.

"How many life readings?" Peter asked.

"Twenty. Varying genetic makeup."

"Any that read as Centaurian?"

"No. Wait . . . I've got one that could be."

"Fine. We'll home in on that one, and deal with the others when we get there."

A few moments later, the Milano landed in what looked like an open field. There was certainly nothing out of the ordinary about the terrain. It would be easy walking due north to the site where, hopefully, the Chrysalias were holding Yondu.

That was what they **thought**, anyway. The moment Peter's feet touched the ground, it suddenly became wet and muddy, sucking at his boots in an effort to slow his steps and possibly drag him down.

"That's impossible," he said out loud. "We did a scan from the air. It wasn't a swamp before we landed!"

"This is what he meant," said Gamora, "by the place changing. It's as if our very presence here has set off some kind of chain reaction."

Suddenly there was a rumbling, and then a tremor that knocked them off their feet. When the shaking stopped and they could stand again, there was a mountain in their way.

"Yeah, that definitely wasn't there before," said Rocket. "This place **is **spooky."

"Don't let it get to you," said Peter. "Expect the unexpected."

"But if one expects the unexpected, then it is not unexpected, is it?" asked Drax.

Peter shook his head. "Just be ready for anything. We'll have to go around. This place is trying to slow us down; we'll just have to speed up to compensate."

And so, a journey that should have taken an hour at most took almost four. After the earthquake and the mountain suddenly thrusting itself out of the ground, they came upon a jungle filled with tiny biting insects. It was like walking through a cloud of razor blades.

After that came the desert, dotted here and there with strange carvings poking themselves out of the sand. Peter barely spared a glance for most of them, but as he passed one, it caught his attention. He stopped and took a good look at it.

"It can't be," he said. "That's . . . that's **me**."

Indeed, the monolith did bear a suspicious resemblance to Star-Lord, but not as an adult. The image portrayed in stone was that of a child, not much older than he had been when the Ravagers picked him up.

Underneath the carving was one word: SON.

"Peter?" Gamora turned back to see what was keeping him. "What is it?"

"No," he said, almost to himself. "That's impossible."

She made her way back to where he stood and gazed upon the carving. "Son? Whose son?"

"I don't believe it," he said. "I've heard of this, but I never believed it was real."

"What?"

"This," he said, raising his voice so the others would hear him, "isn't a planet. It's a psi-moon. It reshapes itself according to the inhabitants' subconscious."

"Translation?" snapped Rocket.

"We are," Peter said, "inside Yondu's mind."

It all made sense now. Why the moon was fighting them at every step. Why the terrain kept changing as they got closer. Yeah, it was scary, all right.

"So," said Rocket, as they reached the end of the desert, "there a lotta these psi-moons out there? How do we know 'em if we come across one again?"

"Very few still survive," Peter told him. "They were part of an experiment in terraforming using artificial intelligence, bonded with the moon itself. The AI senses an individual's mental state and adapts itself accordingly."

"How do you know this?" asked Drax.

"Hey, just because I was raised by space pirates doesn't mean I didn't get an education. I learned Galactic History like any other kid. I loved it, actually. We need to get the hell off this moon as soon as we can."

"Because of the Chrysalias?" asked Gamora.

"No, because the more minds in the vicinity, the more confused the psi-moon becomes. It can't cope with more than a few thought patterns, especially if they're in conflict. That's what happened to the Ravagers-their minds, combined with the Chrysalias, overloaded the psi-moon's defenses, and caused chaos. We get in, we grab Yondu, and we get outta here."

"Sounds like a plan." Rocket nodded and shifted his massive weapon from one hip to the other.

They kept going until they reached a familiar pile of rubble. Peter recognized the surroundings from the brief video. "We're here, I think."

"Yeah, but where is here?"

A huge stone structure, like an enormous ancient temple, loomed before them. There did not appear to be a front door.

"Split up," Peter advised, "and look for a way in. It may be concealed, but I don't think it's closed itself up yet."

"What makes you think that?" asked Gamora.

"Because Yondu's still alive. He's doing at least some of this, and he knows that we're here. He'll find us a way in, I know it."

"I hope you're right."

They made their way along the wall, but it seemed to be made of solid stone, without even a seam between blocks. It seemed that they might have to tunnel their way in, but when Peter leaned against the wall to catch his breath, he heard a hidden catch release, and part of the wall swung inward.

"We've got it!" he called to the others. "Hurry up, cause I don't know how long this is gonna stay open!"

They came running, and quickly the Guardians slipped inside the narrow opening. Groot had to bend himself nearly in half in order to fit through the door. Drax had to slide in sideways. But the five of them made it through, and no sooner had they all slipped through the crack than the door slid closed again. When Peter looked back at it, he couldn't tell where the door had been.

How were they going to get out again?

And that was **if** they got to where they were going in the first place.

"Guess we keep going," Peter quipped. "Are you still picking up those life readings, Gamora?"

She checked the scanner. "Yes. This way! Everyone stick together; if we get lost down here, we may never find each other again."

"That's real comforting," Rocket grumbled.

"I am Groot?"

"No, I don't have a piece of string! What do ya need string for down here?"

"I am Groot!"

"Tie ourselves all together? Are you sure about that?"

"I am Groot."

"Okay, fine. Anybody got any string? Real long piece'd be good."

They all searched their pockets, pouches, and various carry bags, but no string of any size turned up.

Suddenly, from dead ahead, there came a scream.

"Oh, shit!" Peter said. "What are they doing to him?"

"That's one 'a those questions you might not want the answer to," said Rocket. "A better one might be: how do we get outta here before they do that to **us**?"

"I'm not leaving him! We keep going!"

"You know, I was all for this when we started out, but I'm beginning to think that this wasn't such a good idea after all. I'll see ya back at the ship." He started to turn tail and run back the way they had come, but Groot reached out and lifted him off the ground. "Hey! Put me down!"

"I am Groot!"

"Do we really wanna mess with these crazy bitches? They've killed four men already!"

"This place is getting in our heads!" Peter said. He stopped in the middle of the corridor. "We need to just stop thinking about it and krutacking **do** this! If we think, we're dead. So just don't think!"

This was, of course, easier said than done. But no one ever said that the Guardians of the Galaxy got where they were by doing things the easy way.

Peter closed his eyes and let his instincts guide him. It wasn't something he did often, but when his eyes and his brain were telling him different stories, it was best to take one of them out of the picture.

That was what Yondu had taught him, when he was a boy.

_"__Don't think about it, boy! Wait till the shot feels right, and then take it before you lose yer nerve!" He folded his large blue hands over Peter's small pinkish-white ones. "Gentle pressure on that trigger's best. Don't be afraid of it, but don't go crazy, either. Feel it, then do it!"_

Peter reached out and **felt** for the man's presence. It was like listening for one voice in a noisy room-block out all other sounds, all other distractions, and focus. And there, at the very edge of his perception, he was.

"Got him!" he said. "This way!"

He led the others through the maze until they reached a large open chamber. At the far end, chained to the wall by his wrists, was Yondu. His treasured red coat was in tatters; his head was down, and for a moment Peter wasn't sure he was still alive.

But as he crouched before the man, he could feel his heart beating. "It's okay, Dad," he whispered. "We're gonna get you out of here."

He looked up at the manacles around Yondu's wrists. They looked pretty solid, and he wasn't sure he could remove them. Best to work on the chains first.

"Everyone stand back," he said. "I'm gonna blast 'em."

"Put that thing down before you hurt someone!" Rocket reached up and pressed Peter's blaster arm down. "Let me handle this. I didn't break outta twenty-two prisons without knowin' how to pick locks. Who's got a straight pin?"

It took less than two minutes for the raccoon to unlock the cuffs. Yondu fell forward, and Peter caught him.

"Let's get him back to the ship and get out of here."

"What the hell you think yer doin', boy?" Yondu raised his head and looked up at the man he had raised. "Don't worry 'bout me, you get the hell outta here before she comes back!"

"We're not leaving without you," Peter insisted.

"Yes you will, if you wanna live! Now put me back right now or she'll kill all of us!"

"She? Who is she?"

"That would be me," said someone behind them.

Peter turned around slowly to see a tall woman with blue-green skin standing there blocking the door through which they had come. Behind her were several armed warriors, some of whom, Peter noticed, were carrying captured Ravager weapons instead of their customary spears. That wasn't good.


	6. Terror World, part 2

"Do you know who we are?" he asked, trying to stall for time.

"I don't care," she replied, a wicked smile touching her lips. "I will have my revenge!"

"But I've never met you before!"

"Not you, dumbass!" said Yondu. "She's talkin' about me! It's me she wants! That's why I toldja to get out before she came back!"

"But who **is **she?"

Now Yondu looked . . . embarrassed. "You 'member me tellin' you 'bout the first girl I ever knew?"

"Yeah. You met her on the work detail when you were twelve. You two fooled around a little, and the next day they took her away and you never saw her again."

"Yeah, till now. Turns out she wasn't dead after all."

Peter looked at the blue-green woman, with her spiky blonde hair and her bright yellow jumpsuit, and then he looked back at Yondu. "No way."

"It's her, all right."

"But . . . why does she want revenge? Revenge for what?"

"You get the feeling," Rocket said to Gamora, "that we should kinda leave the room here?"

"Don't even think about it," said one of the Chrysalias, who was swinging a wicked-looking hook on a chain.

"You don't think we should give your boss and her old boyfriend some time alone?"

"Silence, rodent!"

"I am Groot!" Groot stepped in front of the others protectively.

The Chrysalia just smiled and held up a flaming torch. "You're also flammable. Move and you burn."

"Do something!" Rocket ordered Drax. "You could go through 'em like lava through . . . well, anything!"

"I cannot."

"Sure you can!"

"I will not hit a woman," the warrior admitted.

"You hit me all the time in our practice sessions!" exclaimed Gamora.

"Sparring is not hitting!"

"Stand down, all of you," Peter ordered. "Let's find out what this is all about." To Yondu he said, "I don't get it. You told me you had one night together and then they took her away. What happened?"

"Well, see, I might not have told ya the whole story. We mighta had more than just the one night."

"He promised we would run away together!" the woman interrupted. "He made all sorts of promises, but when it came down to it, he betrayed me to save his own skin! He told them it was all **my **idea! Mine! And then, the worst insult of all! And the only reason they didn't kill me. Maira, come forth."

The ranks of Chrysalias parted, and a young-looking woman with dark blue skin and wavy green hair stepped forward.

"See what you have done!" The crazy woman took Maira's hand in hers. "She is beautiful, but she has been cursed her whole life with the knowledge that she is the child of a traitor! A liar and a deceiver! Look, Yondu Udonta, upon your daughter! The child you forced upon me and then left me to raise alone!"

Maira looked a bit embarrassed. "This isn't at all how I planned this would be. Hello, Father."

Yondu's reaction to this was stunned silence. Peter, on the other hand, felt he should say something. "Do you have any proof?"

"Proof? You demand proof from me? I am the victim in this!"

The walls began shaking as the ground beneath them trembled. "Look," Peter said, "we can't stay here much longer. Can't we all go back to our ships and settle this another time?"

"I have waited forty years for the chance to settle this! There is no other time!"

"It's just that this moon is unstable with all of us here. It could tear itself apart while we stand here!"

She glared at him. "You," she said. "The adopted son, the child he stole when all along he had a child he refused to acknowledge! You have no rights here!"

"I just want to get us all out of here alive! Besides, he didn't even know about her! Did you?" he asked.

Yondu looked away.

"What? Don't tell me you did know."

"Why d'you think we wanted to run away?" Yondu's red eyes blazed at him. "Wasn't no life for kids! At least if we were on our own, we'd have some kind of a chance!"

"But they caught you. And you turned her over."

"I knew they wouldn't kill 'er if she was pregnant! At least she'd have a chance!"

"A chance?" she raged. "It was **five years **before we were able to escape! And nearly twice as long before I had the money to buy my own ship, and put together a crew-a crew made up of women who had been abused, mistreated, and betrayed by men! Men like you!"

The air above them shook with the crack of thunder. There was a smell of electricity drifting in from above.

"Look, we need to get out of here now!" Peter shouted.

"Kartha, please," Yondu said. "Let them go. Do what you want with me, but leave the boy out of it. Ain't nothin' ta do with him, or his friends. Ya got me. Let 'em go, and you can do what you want with me."

"We're not leaving you here," Peter insisted. "But we have to go now. If we stay, we'll all die. That's not what you want, is it?"

"Mother, listen to him!" Maira shouted. "No revenge is worth our lives! Let's just get out of here while we can!"

"No! I have waited forty years for this! I will not back down now!"

"Look," Peter said, "I get where you're coming from. Men are selfish bastards; I know cause I've been one. But this moon is unstable. All of our combined emotions are tearing it apart! Can we discuss this further when we're all safely away from this crazy place?"

"I know it's a psi-moon!" she exclaimed. "Why do you think I brought him here? What better place to break him down and make him face his own failings than inside his own mind?"

"You really are evil, aren't you?"

"She's right," Yondu said. "This is what I deserve."

There was another clap of thunder from high overhead.

"No, no!" Peter insisted. "You don't deserve this! I mean, sure, you've done some . . . morally questionable things, but deep down I know there's good in you! You took me in when you didn't have to. You stopped your men from eating me. You've done the best you could for all these years to bring me up right. What I'm trying to say is . . . I love you."

"What?" Kartha screeched.

There was a scraping sound as part of the wall in front of them slid open. "Run, run!" Peter didn't waste any time; he lifted Yondu off the floor and raced through the opening before it closed on them. The rest of the team weren't far behind.

"After them!" Kartha ordered her warriors, but as they headed for the makeshift door, it suddenly disappeared. "Damn! We'll have to go the long way around! Don't let them get away!"

The mountain had disappeared. So had the desert. Their journey overland to the ship seemed to take mere minutes, as if they were running on a huge conveyor belt that carried them along at high speed. For once, the moon's psychokinetic properties were working in their favor.

They made it to the ship just ahead of the Chrysalias, and prepped for takeoff in record time. It was only after they were safely away from the moon that it was discovered that they had an extra person on board.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Peter demanded of Maira.

"Helping you," she retorted. "Since you don't seem to have a clue what you're doing."

"What I'm doing is getting us out of here!"

"You think they won't follow?"

"I'll lose 'em. No problem."

"Sure you will. You don't know how they **think**. I do. Let me lose them for you, while you get my father patched up."

"Excuse me, this is **my **ship!"

"I think she has an excellent suggestion," said Gamora. "She can pilot while you take care of our . . . guest."

Peter looked from one to the other. "Fine!" he said at last. "But you'd better get the job done, lady!"

"I will!"

"Yup," said Yondu, who was slumped in a corner out of everyone's way. "That's m' daughter, all right."

It was harder than Peter had thought it would be to get Yondu onto the exam table, with the older man fighting him all the way. Offering to sedate him did no good. It was only when Gamora threatened to knock him out the old-fashioned way that the Centaurian finally cooperated and lay still for the scan.

"Not too bad," was the verdict. "A few broken ribs, some superficial injuries-she was saving the worst of it for later. What concerns me is the blood loss. He's lost a lot of blood, and we don't have any C-negative on board."

"Yes, you do," said Maira. "I do."

"I thought you were busy losing the Chrysalias."

"Consider them lost. I have C-negative blood. I'll give you as much as I can."

"Are you sure? You don't even know him."

"That's exactly why. Because I don't know him, and I want to have that chance. I can help you set up the transfusion, if you don't know how to do it."

"No, I've got it," Peter said.

"You've done this before?"

"Well, I watched it once. But I'm pretty sure I can do it."

Gamora sighed and pushed him out of the way. "Go wait outside," she said. "I **have **done this before, and I don't want you hanging around being annoying."

"I am not annoying!"

There was a raspy, wheezy sound coming from the table. It took Peter a moment to realize that Yondu was laughing at him.

"Boy," he said, "better do what she says. Go on. I wanna talk to my daughter, anyway. In private. Or as close to it as we can get on this ship, anyway."

"Okay, fine." Peter gave up and went to his room. He listened to Awesome Mix #2 until he'd heard both sides three times, and then he figured he'd given them enough time. It shouldn't take that long to do a simple blood transfusion, should it?

When he re-entered the med bay, Yondu was on the table, asleep, and Maira was sitting in a chair sipping some juice. Gamora was putting some equipment away.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

She looked up at him. "Fine," she said. "I gave him about a liter; that should hold him till he gets back to his own ship."

"Did you contact the Ravagers?"

"Yes. That greasy, hairy one answered. I told him we were bringing their captain back and he asked 'In how many pieces?' So I said he was alive, and he didn't believe me. I told him I'd have you call him when you were available. So go call him already."

"I'll do that."

He then went to Maira and asked her, "How're you doing?"

"All right," she said, though she couldn't stop shaking.

"Hey, I don't know if he said this already or not-probably not-but thanks. Thanks for saving him when you didn't have to."

"Why do you keep saying that? Of course I had to! He's my father!"

"But you've never met him before today. My biological father left before I was born, too. I wouldn't know him if I passed him on the street. I **might** give him blood to save his life, but I wouldn't feel like I had to. I don't owe him anything. He never even came back for me."

"Maybe he didn't know about you, either."

"No, my mom told me he promised to come back for both of us. Only he never did. She died . . . and he never came looking for me."

"I'm sure there's a reason."

There was a long moment when they both just stared at each other, and then Gamora cleared her throat. "I hate to interrupt, but, Peter, you have a call to make."

"Oh, right." He got up and kind of waved at Maira. "I'll, um, see you later."

"I'm not going anywhere," she said.

* * *

"Hey, Kraglin. Good to see you up and around."

The first mate didn't waste any time on pleasantries. "You have him? Alive?"

"We do. He's under sedation right now. You'll need to prep the med bay, and gather as much C-negative blood as you can. We gave him enough to keep him alive till we got to you, but it won't last long."

"Didn't know you carried C-neg."

"Yeah, it's kind of a funny story . . ."

"ETA?"

"Twenty-two minutes."

"We'll be ready for you," Kraglin said, and tapped off.

Well, this just sucked.

No sooner had the Milano docked inside the _Eclector_'s massive hangar bay than it took off again, after giving Peter and Maira time to unload Yondu onto a floating platform in preparation for moving him to the med bay. Watching his own ship fly away from him, Peter felt suddenly homesick, even though he was now, in a sense, home.

"Which way?" Maira asked, and Peter realized that he'd been standing there staring off into the distance for some time.

"Oh, sorry. This way." He led her to the ship's medical bay, where Corfla, who served as emergency medic, was waiting with several units of C-negative blood.

"I'll take it from here," he said. "Thanks for bringing him back in one piece."

"You know where Razu is, man?"

"He's in his bunk, getting the first decent sleep he's had in days."

"Oh." Bad time to ask him about payment, then. "We'll be in my quarters, then."

"You and the chick?"

"The chick is my sister," Peter snapped, and stormed out before Corfla could puzzle out that statement. Maira followed.

* * *

"You don't look forty," Peter said to the woman he now thought of as his sister. Funny, he'd never even thought of having one before, and now here she was.

She smiled. "Centaurians are supposed to be long-lived. My mother is a Benzanite, and they average a two- to three-hundred-year lifespan. How long do Terrans live?"

"About . . . seventy-five or eighty. But I'm only half-Terran, so I don't know how long I'll live. Not that I'm likely to live out my full lifespan anyway, considering my line of work."

"I should be insanely jealous of you, getting to know him in a way I never could, but I'm not. I'm glad he was there for you, at least."

"Yeah, he was always there. That's what I remember most. Whenever I was sick, or hurt, or just lonely, he would come and look in on me. He taught me how to fly, how to shoot, how to stitch up my own wounds . . . I bet your mom did that for you, too."

Maira looked away. "No, she was . . . she was always too busy. My sister-aunts took care of me."

"Oh. How old were you when you first asked about your dad?"

"I don't know. Four, five maybe. Old enough to walk and talk, but not old enough to be on my own yet."

"What did she tell you?"

"She said he was a lying, cheating, rat bastard, and we were better off without him. All my sister-aunts said the same thing, too: men were bastards. But that can't be true, can it? They can't **all** be bad."

"Um . . ." Peter thought of what a few ex-girlfriends might have to say about **him**. "Nobody's all good or all bad. Some of us have done some pretty despicable things, but we've done good things, too. You can't really judge someone until you know more about them. I've seen Yondu kill a dozen men with that arrow of his, and all he did was whistle. But I've also seen him put his life on the line for his crew. Maybe you should get to know him better, and decide for yourself if your mom and your aunts were right."

It was then that Kraglin came into the room. "He's awake," he said. "And he's asking for you. Both of you."

Peter looked at Maira, and they both got up in the same instant. "Come on," he said.

Yondu was looking a lot better now that he had some blood in him. He was sitting up in bed, most of his chest and arms heavily bandaged.

"You two been playin' nice, I hope," he said.

"Yeah," said Peter. "We've been talking about stuff."

"Good stuff, I hope."

"I think so. She's decided that men aren't all bad, and I'm feeling better about having a sister. How're you feeling?"

"Me? I'm fine." He turned to Maira. "I ain't thanked ya properly for saving my life. You didn't know me from a hole in the ground, and ya still did it."

"Maybe I didn't want to lose the chance to get to know you," she said.

"Plenty of room, if you wanna stay. I should warn ya, though, my boys ain't always on their best behavior, but I know you can take care 'a yerself. I'll make sure to tell 'em not to try and grab yer ass."

"They do," she said, "and they'll no longer have hands to grab with."

"I know. Gotta warn 'em not ta get hurt. Welcome aboard, sweetheart."

Peter took off his red jacket, the one he'd made himself when he was twenty-five, and handed it to her. "You've earned this," he said.

She looked at it. "I can't take your coat."

"Can't be a proper Ravager without the red coat."

"And what will you wear?"

"I've got another." In fact, he had two others: the short one that he wore into battle, and the long duster that he pulled out for publicity photos. "I'm not exactly a Ravager anymore, though. I've been working on designing team uniforms. But so far, nobody likes what I've come up with."

She shook her head. "I can't take your coat."

"Why not? Too big? You can roll the sleeves up. Here, try it on."He stepped behind her and slipped it over her shoulders. "If it's really too big, I can take it in a bit for you."

"Do you really make your own clothes?"

"What, just because we're a bunch of tough guys, we don't know how to sew? Every man on this ship can line up an inseam and take up a hem. I can cook, too."

"Really?"

"I insist on it," said Yondu. "Ain't got nobody to take care 'a us. We gotta do it all ourselves. If you don't know how, I'll teach you."

"I can sew," she said, "and cook."

"Then you'll do jes' fine here. Now take the damn jacket. I won't have my kids fightin'."

"Fine." She slipped her arms into the sleeves, and ended up not having to roll them up at all. The jacket was a bit loose, but not too baggy on her.

"Looks great on you," Peter said. "Now you look like a real Ravager."

"You think so?"

There was a chirp from the communication panel in the corner of the room. _"__Pete, your friends are back."_

"Guess we've got a job," he said. "I'll see you guys later."

"Hey, don't be a stranger, boy," said Yondu. "Gimme a call sometime."

"Sure thing."

Maira smiled. "See you, bro."

* * *

"Where's your jacket?" Rocket asked, as Peter climbed into the pilot's seat.

"I gave it to Maira. She needed a real Ravager jacket if she's gonna be a real Ravager."

"I can't believe she wants to stay with them," said Gamora.

"Well, where else has she got to go? Her mother'll kill her if she tries to rejoin the _Chrysalis_. And we don't have any room here."

"Where's our money?" the raccoon demanded.

"It's not about the money! I gained something far more valuable than money today!" Damn, his headache was coming back. "I have a sister."

"They're not all they're cracked up to be," said Gamora. "Wait till the novelty wears off, and you start driving each other crazy."

"I actually look forward to that." Where the hell were the damn painkillers? Had he dropped the bottle when he took one last time?

There was a beep from the console. "Holy slaggin' frack!" Rocket exclaimed. "Someone just deposited **fifty thousand units **in our account!"

"What?" Headache be damned. Peter had to see this for himself. He glanced at the monitor and saw that the figure that represented their main account was now three times what it had been just yesterday. "Wow. I'll have to send Razu a thank-you note."

"Who cares? We're rich!"

"Don't forget," said Gamora, "that it has to be divided five ways."

"So . . . ten thousand apiece."

"Minus twenty percent for expenses. The household account gets paid first."

"So, eight, then. Still pretty decent."

"Minus the debt you owe me for last week's card game."

"Oh, man!"

"How much did you lose to her?" Peter inquired.

Rocket looked sheepish. "About eight thousand."

"Don't worry. I'll share mine with you. Let's go celebrate!"

There was a collective groan at this.

"What, too soon? Okay, we'll stay in. Watch a movie or something. All in all, not a bad day."

* * *

"This is the **worst day **of my life!" Kartha screamed.

Her underlings kept their distance, not willing to risk her wrath.

"From this moment on, Yondu and anyone associated with him is our **mortal enemy**! He shall not escape me a second time! And that traitorous daughter of mine . . . she has chosen her fate, and she will die with him!"

"We have to find them first, my lady."

"I know that! And we will find them! And these so-called heroes along with them! I will not be made a fool of!"

She looked around. "Well? What are you waiting for? Find them! Destroy them! That is an order!"

As the crew went about their duties, she sat back in her command chair. "Men," she spat. "They are nothing but trouble! They are a scourge upon the universe, and I will rid the galaxy of their foul presence! So say we all!"

"So say we all!" the bridge crew echoed in solidarity.[1] Privately each and every one of them thought their captain was a bit of a nutter, but none of them were brave enough to actually tell her that.

Yet.

The _Chrysalis_ sailed on.

* * *

[1] Yes, I totally stole that from _Battlestar Galactica_.


	7. Runaway Bridegroom

"This is such a bad idea," Gamora said, as the Guardians pushed their way through the jungle.

Normally Peter would have to agree. Entering hostile and inhospitable territory to do business with a tribe of genetically engineered homicidal maniacs was, generally speaking, a very bad idea. However, they didn't exactly have a choice. A collision with a runaway asteroid had left them with a damaged engine part, and the only place within a thousand light-years to find one was here on this planet.

"Can't we go without one?" Peter had asked Rocket. "At least until we can get to a more reputable dealer?"

"Sure," Rocket said. "If you can hold your breath for, oh, a week or so."

So they were stuck, trudging through swampy and overgrown terrain to try and find the village where the tribe lived.

"Let me handle everything," said Rocket. "I speak the language, and I can get us the best price. Won't be cheap, though, I'll tell ya right away."

"We still have substantial funds left over from our last job," said Drax. "Whatever the price, we can pay it."

"Just remember the number-one rule of negotiating: never let 'em know how much you really have. Always start at least twenty percent below what you expect to pay. Gives you some room to haggle."

An arrow whizzed by them, embedding itself in a tree. "I think we're getting close," Peter quipped.

"Really?" Gamora shot back. "Where would you get an idea like that?"

They came out into a clearing, and suddenly they were surrounded.

The Kinitawowi were shaggy humanoids who looked like Chewbacca on steroids. The warriors surrounding them were all heavily armed with not only bows but spears, stone knives, and staves that looked to be at least eight feet tall and came to sharp points on both ends.

"_Nar who neh niki ta gowa_?" demanded one, brandishing his spear.

"Whoa!" Peter flinched back from the sharp point aimed at his chest. "Why don't they have translators?"

"They don't believe in technology," Rocket explained. "They fix it and sell it, but they don't use any themselves. Violates their religion, or somethin'."

"Tell them we mean them no harm."

"Speak for yourself, Earth man."

"Tell them!"

"Okay, fine! Kinitawowi: _neh nihha toh wanu kakao_ . . ."

As the raccoon jabbered on and on, Peter looked around and mentally calculated their chances if they just made a run for it right now. From the looks on the other warriors' faces, he was guessing slim and none. Those spears would gut him like a pig at a luau.

After some negotiation, the warriors (and if this was the size of a scout party, Peter would hate to see them in full-on war party mode) agreed to lead them back to their village. Blindfolded. Even Groot had to have several layers of sturdy cloth wound around his trunk. It smacked of undue paranoia, but Peter wasn't about to argue with someone who outweighed him by a good forty kilos, and was armed to the teeth besides.

None of them spoke along the journey, possibly because of the spears at their backs, more likely out of fear of saying something to upset the spear holders. At last they came to a halt, and the blindfolds were removed.

They were in a long hut with an earthen floor, surrounded by more Kinitawowi, of all sizes. Unlike the hunting party, there appeared to be women and children among them. They were all big (even the kids were between three and five feet tall), hairy, and smelled like wet dog. Holding his nose, though, would have been an insult, and Peter made it a point never to insult someone holding a weapon on him.

Presently the chief stepped forward. They could tell he was the chief because he was taller and broader than the other Kinitawowi, and he wore an elaborate feathered headdress with what looked like small bones woven into it. Peter didn't like to speculate on what kind of creature had originally belonged to those bones.

He was holding something in his arms, stroking it like a pet. Peter leaned in to get a better look at it. "Is that a polymorph?"

Gamora was scanning it. "It's an emohawk, a related species that's native to this planet and partially domesticated."

"Everyone think good thoughts, then. Don't attract its attention."

Rocket stepped forward and engaged the chief in a dialogue. Peter couldn't understand a word of it, but hopefully he was explaining about the oxy-generation unit and their willingness to trade whatever they had for it.

The chief was pointing at him.

"What?" He looked around, but the other Kinitawowi were just staring at him expectantly. "Me? What?"

The chief uttered a long stream of gibberish punctuated by gestures, most of which were in Peter's direction.

"Aw, crap." Rocket drew him aside. "I was afraid of this."

"What? He doesn't like me? What did I do?"

"He, um, he . . ." It was the first time Peter had ever seen the raccoon ill at ease. "He wants-"

"My jacket?"

"No, he doesn't want your jacket."

"My shirt?"

"No . . ."

"He doesn't want my boxers, does he?" The thought of stripping in a room full of Sasquatch lookalikes made him more than a little uncomfortable.

"He wants **you**, okay? He wants you to be his daughter's mate." Rocket pointed to what looked like the love child of a Sharpei and a shag carpet.

"What? Are you out of your mind?"

"He says no wedding, no OG unit. So unless you like breathing vacuum, I suggest you go through with it."

"But-does he know who we are? I can't stay here! We have work to do, all over the galaxy!"

"Relax, I told 'im. He says as soon as the marriage is consummated, you're free to go."

Peter glanced back at his future bride. She didn't look any more attractive the second time than she had the first. "I have to . . . with **that**?"

Gamora couldn't hide a smile. "That, my friend, is called karma. Whatever gods you worship are paying you back for all your years of screwing around. So suck it up and take one for the team."

"Take one what?" Drax was confused.

"I'll explain it later," said Rocket. "So should I go tell him to start the wedding march?"

"Not a chance in hell!" Peter exclaimed.

* * *

Moments later, he was standing beside the shag-Sharpei (whose name, he was informed, was Ksskakksshk), listening to the chief drone on in nonsense syllables and wondering if anyone would actually check if the marriage had been consummated, or if they could fake it somehow.

Everyone was staring at him. "What?"

"Nn-gaak," said Rocket.

"Bless you."

"No, _nn-gaak_. That's the proper response."

"Oh. Nn-gaak."

"_Hohto wah nunga-nu badaah_."

"He says you may now," and Rocket couldn't resist a brief smile of delight, "kiss the bride."

"What, without a bag?" Peter gasped out, before he was nearly smothered by what felt like pieces of a rubber tire wrapped in a worn fur coat. The smell intensified to the point where he thought he might throw up. That would probably not go over well with the guests.

_Dear God, _he prayed, _whatever gods are out there, if this is a punishment, I'm sorry! I get the message! From now on, no more one-nighters with anything with breasts! I am a one-woman man! But why does the one woman have to be this warty Yeti lookalike?_

_Please, get me out of this!_

At last, he came up for air. Sweet, glorious air! He would never take oxygen for granted again.

He looked around. Everyone was leaving. Already?

"Where are they all going?" Peter asked.

"Wedding banquet," said Rocket. "In true Kinitawowi fashion, it's held outside, before the newlyweds-that's you-retire to the honeymoon hut for . . . well, you know."

"Could we make a run for it now?"

"Not without gettin' cut down by a couple dozen arrows, you couldn't. Wait till the deed is done, and then we'll slip away."

"There's got to be a loophole somewhere. Some way out of having to-" Peter glanced back at his shaggy, wet-dog-smelling bride, and nearly bolted then and there.

"Relax. While you two are gettin' busy, we'll be on the ship fitting the OG unit. We'll come get ya as soon's that's done. Okay?"

"Yeah, I guess." There was no way out of this, was there? Whatever god was doing this to him (probably Loki, the trickster, whom Gamora claimed to have actually met) must be laughing His head off right now.

Peter took his seat at the banquet and prayed (to a different, and hopefully nicer, god this time) that the food wouldn't turn out to be incompatible with his puny Terran digestive system. That would be the ultimate divine retribution.

After the feast was over and the chief, his mate, several other important tribal authorities, and just about everyone else had made their speeches, the happy couple (well, one of them was happy, anyway) were allowed to retire to their new home.

Ksskakksshk lay down on a pile of furs, smiling at her new husband in invitation. Peter, however, was not inclined to take her up on it.

"Thanks, babe, but I'm beat. I'm goin' straight to sleep. See you in the morning." He dragged a few blankets as far across the single room from her as possible, and burrowed into them.

She yanked the covers off him.

"What, morning already?"

Ksskakksshk looked up and down his body in a way that made him vaguely uncomfortable. Then she tugged on his arms, and removed his jacket. She slid a claw (they had **claws**? Why hadn't he noticed that they had claws?) down the front of his torso, and his shirt fell off. Then she tugged at his trousers-

"Whoa, whoa! Look, I know you can't understand me, but I'm hoping 'back off' is universal." He crossed his arms over his groin protectively. "I was thinking maybe we could, you know, get to know each other first. We haven't even had our first date yet. Could we take this nice and slow, maybe?" He looked up at her beseechingly.

She smiled back and tore off his pants. Now Peter was lying there in only his boxers and his boots, and she was probably going for the shorts next.

The time for diplomacy was over. It was time to cut his losses and get the hell out of there. He jumped to his feet, grabbed his jacket, and made a run for it.

On his way out of the village, he caught up with the rest of the team, who were lugging the OG unit back to the ship. "Change of plan!" he yelled over his shoulder. "Let's get outta here!"

He plopped into the pilot's chair and began takeoff procedures before the others had even reached the ship. Time was of the essence; as soon as Ksskakksshk told her family that her husband of three hours had run out on her, they would be coming in full force, armed to the teeth.

Peter would not let any of his team suffer for his moment of weakness.

"What the hell are you doing?" Rocket demanded. "You couldn't go through with it?"

"No offense, but furries aren't my kink. Plus the smell was about to knock me out."

"Couldn't handle a taste of your own medicine, huh?" Gamora smirked.

"Why are you taking medicine?" asked Drax. "Are you ill?"

"No, I'm not, and at least I never ripped a girl's clothes off! I couldn't have fought her off; she outweighed me by twenty kilos! Running away was the only solution!"

"They'll be comin' after us now!" Rocket moaned.

"Relax! They don't have space flight! Once we're clear of the planet, we're good! We'll find a way to make it up to them later, after you've installed the new OG unit."

"I am Groot?" The tree-creature paused halfway up the ramp, OG unit in hand.

"No, we're not bringin' it back!" said Rocket. "Put that downstairs and I'll get to it!"

"Everybody strap in!" Peter ordered them. "We're taking off right now!"

With a lurch and a thunder, they broke free of the tiny planet's gravity. And they were **never **coming back there again.

Just then, a little light started blinking. "Is that the OG?" Peter asked, preparing to hold his breath.

"No," said Gamora. "It says 'unknown life form detected.'"

"What unknown life form?" Then he realized what it must be. "The emohawk! They've sent the emohawk after us! We have to kill it!"

"How? It can be anywhere. It can be any**thing**. We won't know till it strikes."

"Well, it's probably after me, so I'll go below somewhere and try and draw it out."

"Yes," she drawled, "because that worked so well with the polymorph. No, we stick together at all times. Keep a careful watch, and trust nothing. Peter, **what **are you doing?"

He was gathering up various discarded clothing items that were scattered all over the main compartment and throwing them into a bin. "Laundry," he said. "I'm running out of underwear."

"Thank you for sharing that. While I'm glad to see you taking some responsibility when it comes to cleaning, I have to question your timing. Can your underwear wait until after we've gotten rid of the emohawk?"

"Relax. I'll be fine. See ya in a few minutes." He started down into the lower level of the ship, and she followed. "Hey, I don't want you looking at my underwear!"

"We stick together," she reiterated. "At all times. No matter what."

"There has to be some kind of exception for underwear."

"No. There isn't. Besides, I've seen underwear before."

"Not with Captain America's shield across the . . . back."

She frowned. "What is a Captain America and why would you want it . . . there?"

"Long story."

"Tell me while we look for the emohawk."

"Hey, **you** look for the emohawk. I'm doing my laundry."

"It is **your fault **the creature is on this ship in the first place!" she shouted at him. "It is **your **responsibility to get rid of it!"

"Yeah, I will! I just . . . need some clean shorts."

"Your shorts can wait! As long as the emohawk is on this ship, we are all in danger! What is your plan?"

"You mean besides doing my laundry?"

"Yes!"

"Fine. We'll, um, draw it out of hiding, and then blast it."

"But it could be anywhere. It could be anything. How will we know?"

"Look for something that doesn't belong. I know every inch of this ship. It's gotta be something that we wouldn't suspect at first glance, but that doesn't belong where it is. Like that blaster there."

She looked at it. The gun was just sitting on the deck by itself, looking harmless (or at least as harmless as a heavy weapon can look). "How can you tell?"

"It's too new. It's too shiny. Nothing in this ship is brand new. We've got to flush it out the airlock before it changes."

"Right."

"Count of three. I'll get the gun, you get the airlock. One, two . . . three!"

Quickly he grabbed the weapon by the barrel and flung it into the airlock, which opened and then closed again with a whoosh. "All right. That's that."

"I hope so," she said.

Just then, Rocket came downstairs to see what was going on. "Didja get it?"

"I think so." Peter started loading his clothes into the sonic washer.

"You seen Clarina?"

"Who's Clarina?"

"Clarina. My new gun. I think I left it down here somewhere."

Uh oh. "Was it about . . . this long," Peter said, measuring with his hands, "shiny, and fully loaded?"

"Yeah! Where is it?"

Peter looked helplessly at Gamora, whose face was impassive. Finally he confessed, "I threw it out the airlock."

"**What**?"

"I thought it was the emohawk!"

"Oh, great! So it's still around here somewhere, and we're down one gun! What do we do now, Fearless Leader?" Rocket crossed his arms and glared at Peter, who was standing there twisting a dirty shirt in his hands, trying to think of something to say. Nothing he thought of could possibly help.

"Sorry," was all he could manage.

"You have other guns, do you not?" asked Gamora.

"Well, yeah, but that ain't the point! We can't be running around like idiots while this thing is waitin' to suck out our happy! We need a real plan! What the flark are you **doing**?"

"Ensuring," Peter said, loading the last of his wash in the machine, "that when it sucks out my happy, I at least have some clean shorts to change into. Clean shorts are important."

"And what are we supposed to be doin' while you're waitin' for your clean shorts?"

"You could try scanning for the thing. There aren't too many places it can hide."

"On this ship?" Gamora gave him a "please" look. "Think of how small it can make itself. It could be in your dirty sock basket. Oh, wait, you don't have a basket for your dirty socks. You just leave them all over the floor until you can't see it anymore, and then pick the **worst **possible moment to decide to do laundry!"

"Leave my socks out of this!"

"Great, they're at it again," Rocket muttered to himself. "I'mma go find one of my not-so-new guns, and then I'm gonna track that little sucker down and **blast **the crap out of it!"

He left, trailing curses and threats toward shape-changing emotion-suckers, and Peter finished loading his clothes and set the cycle in motion. It would be forty minutes before the machine was done, and he sat down on a plastic crate he had scavenged from who knew where and wished he at least had something to read.

"You don't have to stand guard over them," Gamora said.

He looked up at her, still leaning on the wall. "Actually, I do. Or I did; it was a necessity living with the Ravagers. If you didn't keep an eye on the washers, someone would steal your clothes while you weren't looking. There was this one guy, Riktav, who made a game of stealing single socks from the machines. Loads would come out with only one of each pair of socks. There were rumors he had a huge cache of single socks, and every night he used to rub his face in them." He sat back and sighed. "He was found one day, hanging from the ceiling in the laundry room, from a rope woven out of single socks. Guess someone got tired of losing socks."

In spite of the grim ending, the story made her smile. "You're making that up."

"No, I swear. He had the strangest burial request, too. He wanted to-"

"Ssh. Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"How do you survive with such pathetically weak senses? I heard something."

"Good for you. Go investigate."

"Oh, no. You're coming with me."

"Why do I have to come with you? I'm busy."

She grasped his arm and hauled him to his feet. "Unless you think some sock-stealing spectre from beyond the grave is coming to pilfer your clean laundry, you are coming with me. I will not leave you alone while that creature is on the loose."

"Aw, you do care!"He smiled flirtatiously at her, but she wasn't in a flirty mood.

"Come on! It sounded like it was coming from down this way!"She took off running, and though he was tempted to stay and guard his socks, he followed.

Half an hour later, after searching every single nook and cranny of the lower level and inspecting every item from the biggest weapon to the tiniest paper fastener, they concluded that the emohawk was either cleverly biding its time in some disguise so perfect that they couldn't discern it, or else it wasn't here.

"It probably is in with your dirty socks," she concluded. "That's where your scent is the strongest."

"Fine. We'll check there next."

Suddenly there was a whining, screeching noise throughout the lower deck. "What is **that**?" Gamora asked, putting her hands over her ears.

"Oh, that's just the signal for the washer." Peter went and pressed the button, shutting off the din. Then he began loading his clothes into the basket, not bothering to fold them first. "Where are they . . . where are . . . ah!" He held up a pair of light blue briefs with some kind of round insignia on the back. "Here they are! Captain America, reporting for duty!"

"Why are those so important to you? Other than the obvious."

"Captain America was this big hero where I come from. He fought these evil guys who wanted to take over the world. My grandma got his autograph once. She showed me. So he's always been like my personal hero."

"I see."

"Since the emohawk clearly has better things to do, I'm gonna go put this away. You can come if you like."

"If you don't mind. I still think we should stick together."

"Okay, then." Peter lifted up the basket and headed for his room, not noticing the item still left in the washer: a certain pair of light blue briefs with a star shield on the back.

* * *

Rocket stalked around the ship, scanner in hand. The little sucker had to be here **somewhere**. He switched to infrared, which at least would tell him where it had been, and . . . yes, there it was! A trail! He followed it into Peter's quarters.

"Where is it?" he demanded, scanner in one hand and a heavy-duty stunner in the other.

Peter looked up from sorting his laundry. "Where is what?"

"You know what! It came in here!"

"Well, it musta left again, cause I haven't seen it."

"Thought you weren't supposed to be alone."

"Yeah, she's . . . in the bathroom."

"Fine. I'll stay here till she gets back."

"Be my guest, but I'm telling you, it's not here. 'Scuse me while I change my shorts." He turned around and quickly shed his old clothing, pulling on the Captain America briefs.

This would quickly prove to be a very big mistake.

The scanner started beeping wildly as Rocket swung it around. "Pete, get down! It's right behind ya!"

"What?" He started to turn, and that was when he felt a pain in his groin. "Aah! Ow! What is-"

"Move! I can't get the shot!"

"No! Don't shoot!" The ever-increasing pain had brought home the inevitable conclusion. "It's my briefs! My Captain America briefs! The emohawk is my briefs! And they're shrinking!"

"That is just sick!"

"Get 'em off me! Hurry! Before it cuts off my circulation!" He lay back on his bunk, clawing at the fabric, which refused to budge.

"You really pissed that Kinitawowi bitch off good, didn't ya?"

"Just get them off!"

"Okay, okay!" Rocket hopped up on the bed beside him and tried to tear them off. The offending briefs were now so tight that Rocket couldn't get a grip on them, even with his claws. "I was afraid 'a this. I'm gonna have ta bite."

"Fine! Fine! Just don't bite anything vital!"

"Here goes!"

"Aaaahh! Oooooooh! Hurry, hurry!"

Drax wandered in to ask how the search for the emohawk was going, saw Rocket with his nose buried in Peter's crotch, and decided that it was best not to ask too many questions. He left the room, hoping that it was a metaphor that someone would eventually explain to him. But hopefully not in too much detail.

Finally Rocket's sharp teeth were able to tear through the waistband. There was a high, keening shriek of pain as the emohawk slid down onto the floor, changing form as it went, and slithered into the air vent.

"Shit! It's gettin' away!" Rocket fired into the vent, but the blast went wild. "Sorry about that," he said over ship radio. "Bogey on the loose! It's in the air ducts, which means it could get anywhere! I'm goin' in after it!"

He jumped down off the bed, took one last glance back at Peter, and said, "Put some damn pants on, wouldja?"

* * *

The emohawk was a slippery little bastard. Rocket was right on its tail (wait-did it have a tail?) until the junction between the kitchen and the lounge, and then it must have changed into a chameleon and blended in with the walls, cause there was no sign of it. He gave up and popped out of the vent in the main compartment. "Lost 'im," he said over the radio. "Everyone be on the alert for somethin' that doesn't belong. Could be anything; could be anyone. Hello, is this thing on?"

With a wet slurp, the radio shifted and melted until it towered over the trembling raccoon. Then it extended a sucker and helped itself to his confidence.

When the others found him, Rocket was lying on the floor in a heap, quivering and making animal noises.

"It's okay, buddy," Peter said, reaching out for him, but Rocket hissed and tried to bite him. "Hey!"

Groot tapped out something on a pad, and then showed the others: HIS SYSTEM HAS BEEN KNOCKED OFFLINE. I WILL DEAL WITH HIM. YOU LOOK FOR THE EMOHAWK.

"I can help," Gamora offered.

NO. STAY WITH QUILL. HE NEEDS YOUR PROTECTION. IT WANTS HIM MOST OF ALL.

"Okay, then. We'll keep you posted."

"That's it!" Peter deliberately stood in the center of the room, hands on his hips. "Come on out, you little son of a glitch! I don't care what you do to me, I deserve it, but leave my friends alone!"

From off in the distance, there was a squeaking and a slithering.

"Get ready," Peter said. "When it goes for me, blast it with the liquid nitrogen. I'll call Kesto and have him do an extraction. Then we'll ship the emohawk back to the Kinitawowi."

"Will we ship you back with it?" asked Gamora. "It's you they're after."

"Don't worry. I have a plan."

If there were any questions about the plan, they were never asked, because the emohawk chose that exact moment to slither out of the vent and attack. It hit the floor, bounced like a rubber ball, and just as it was about to leap onto Peter's exposed neck, Drax hit it with the liquid nitrogen and froze it solid.

"Good shot, buddy!" Peter congratulated him. "Stick it in the freezer for now. We'll need it later."

"Where are you going?" Drax asked him.

"I've got calls to make."

* * *

By the time he re-emerged, Rocket was articulate again, but the emohawk had left him a trembling coward. He stuck close by Groot's side, nuzzling up against him when he became too overwhelmed by sounds and lights.

"Kesto is on his way," Peter reported, trying to keep his voice down. "We had quite the interesting conversation, in fact. Did you know that sending a dangerous animal to attack someone constitutes assault with a deadly weapon? At the very least, the animal will be confiscated. If we decide to press charges, the Kinitawowi could be looking at prison time."

"So what does that mean?" asked Gamora.

"Well, that was the second call I made. Believe it or not, the Kinitawowi home world is not outside of the Nova Corps' jurisdiction. To put it simply . . . I called the cops on them."

"Do they know?" asked Drax.

"They should be getting the message very shortly. About, oh . . . now."

The messaging screen blinked on. "You dare to threaten us? After you broke our agreement?"

"Hello, sir. Nice of you to use a translator at last. As you can see, our translator is a little . . . under the weather, thanks to your little pet."

"Where is the emohawk?"

"We've got him on ice. We'll return him to you, as soon as our friend the emo trader restores my friend's confidence. In the meantime, we can discuss whether or not we drop the charges."

"Charges? What charges?"

"You intentionally set a dangerous animal on my crew! It attacked us, causing grievous emotional injury. That's a minimum two-year prison sentence."

"Prison sentence!"

"Plus, of course, the animal will have to be destroyed."

The chief looked furious. "How dare you threaten the Kinitawowi? After you stole from us?"

"Your terms were unsatisfactory. Which brings me to my proposition: we will return the emohawk to you, without filing any charges . . ."

"Yes?"

"If you give me . . ."

"What?"

"A divorce."

Ksskakksshk pushed her way in front of the camera. "You lying, cheating, bastard!"

"Yeah, you're not the first girl to call me that. Look, I'm really sorry, but . . . it's for your own good."

She looked skeptical.

"I mean, what kind of a husband would I be to you? Always off on missions, for one thing. And when I do come home, I hardly spend any time with you. I sleep around with other women. Really, you're better off. This way, we can wash our hands of it and call it a learning experience."

"But . . . people can change."

"They **say **they'll change. They try to change. Maybe it lasts a few days. Maybe a few weeks. But in the end, changes never really last. I'll be back to that lying, cheating bastard, and you'll be miserable. It's time for us both to move on. You'll meet some nice guy, someone who deserves you. Cause I'm just no good for you, baby."

"Don't do this. Don't break my heart."

"There's a saying where I come from: if you love someone, set them free. Free, free, set them free . . . ah, I love Sting. I'm sorry, where was I?"

"Setting me free," she replied. "Does this mean . . . you really do love me?"

"I love you enough to know that I'm not the man you want, or need. So I'm setting you free. We'll compensate you for the OG, chief. Name your price."

"I suppose-if you drop the charges and return the emohawk, I will consider the matter closed."

"That's real generous of you. Thanks. We'll have it to you in about twenty-four hours. Sorry for your trouble."

"You would have been chief, when I passed. The tribe would have belonged to you, at your complete disposal."

"Thanks for the offer, but I know nothing about being a Kinitawowi. I'm sure there are more qualified candidates. Kassie-I can't pronounce your name properly; can I just call you Kassie?-best of luck to you. Who knows, the right guy for you may be someone you've already met and just never noticed before. Don't give up hope and settle for less than you deserve."

"I suppose you're right," she said. "Go in peace, former husband."

* * *

And that was that. Kesto showed up a few hours later, and a short while after that, he had restored Rocket's confidence.

"Shame to let this one go," the trader said of the emohawk. "They're very rare in the wild these days. Too bad I couldn't keep it for a few days and breed it with one of my pretties."

"Yeah, cause that's just what we need," Rocket snapped. "More little emotion-suckers slithering about the place, dropping miniature versions of themselves everywhere . . ."

"Oh, no. They don't bear live young. They lay eggs. Didn't you know that?"

"What do these eggs look like?" Drax inquired.

"They're light green, oval, a little smaller than my fist . . . why?"

"I am afraid breakfast will be delayed," the warrior announced, and retreated to the kitchen.

For a moment, Rocket looked confused, and then the realization hit him. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

He rushed off to the bathroom, and Gamora turned to Peter. "Did you mean what you said, about how people don't really change?"

"Well . . . I'll try really, really hard. But I can't promise you anything. So, since I'm no longer a married man, would you like to go out sometime?"

She smacked him in the head. But not very hard; she was glad everything had turned out okay in the end. And she really wouldn't want him to change **too **much.

However, it would be nice if he picked up his socks once in a while.


	8. Fun and Games, pt 1

"'For mild stomach upset,'" Peter Quill read off the small white bottle, "'take one teaspoonful. For acute indigestion, take two.'" He looked at the pitifully small spoon, put one hand on his churning stomach, and chugged half the bottle in one go.

"Hey." Gamora poked her head around the door. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, better. Still feels like I swallowed molten lava, but I think it's calming down now."

"I am so sorry about dinner. I thought cooking would be easy. I wanted to take my turn."

"I know. Is the bathroom free yet?"

"That depends on your interpretation of-" And here she did an uncanny imitation of an angry raccoon hiss.

There was the chirp of the shipwide comm system. "Quill," said Drax, who was up front insisting he was well enough to monitor the autopilot, "there is a courier-bot here with a package for you."

"For me?" He swung his legs off the bunk, and took a few moments to steady himself. "Can't you sign for it?"

"The bot insists it must be your signature."

"Fine. I'm coming." He stood up shakily, deep breathing to try and regain control of his bodily functions.

"I'll come with you," said Gamora. "Since your condition is my fault anyway."

"Hey, you tried. For your first time, it wasn't bad, actually. Except for the roast. But I like well-done meat . . . it was meat, wasn't it?"

"Yes, under the blackened crust, there was meat. I should have known better than to ask Drax to keep an eye on it for me. An hour later he came to me and said, 'It is making black smoke. Is it done yet?'"

They laughed together, although in a low-key way, for they had now reached the cockpit.

"Hey, Drax," Peter said. "So that's a courier-bot, huh?"

"Now you can sign for your package."

He did so, and the drone transferred the small rectangular package onboard before speeding away.

"Wonder what this is?" Peter picked up the box, which had ANDROMAZON DOT COM printed on the side, and looked for a return address label. There was none. "I didn't order anything. At least, I don't think I did."

"Open it and find out."

"Okay, then." He turned it over and looked for some kind of a flap to tear back, but there was none. "Well, how the hell do I-this thing makes no sense!"

Gamora took it away from him and turned it upside-down. Right there on the bottom was a dotted line and the legend TO OPEN, CUT ALONG LINE.

"Well, anyone coulda missed that. Now what have we got to-"

He started to look in various drawers and cubbyholes for scissors, knowing full well that they weren't there because **someone **who would remain nameless borrowed them to cut a length of wire and never put them back in the right spot. "Anyone know where the scissors are?"

"Allow me." Drax took one of his knives and stabbed the package, slicing through the cardboard and bisecting the word FRAGILE. Peter sighed and peeled back the packaging.

"Hmm," he said. "It's some sort of . . . disc?"He turned it over and looked at the front. "_Better Than Life_? What's that?"

"Oh, that's one 'a them new Total Immersion Video Games," said a voice down by his hip.

Drax stood up. "You are finished in the bathroom now?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

With that, Drax took off running as if his life depended on it. Peter shrugged and looked at the back copy.

"_'__Better Than Life_ is a sensational new breakthrough in video game technology! For the first time, you are actually in the game-not on a screen, but all around you, like real life, only . . . better!' It's some kind of 3-D, isn't it? 'Requires 2-4 Immersion Headsets (not included).' Great."

"Peter," Gamora said suddenly. "I think the drone's back."

It was hovering just outside, with another package he needed to sign for. One electronic signature later, they were in possession of four headsets, which looked like three-pronged headphones.

"Those things ain't gonna fit me," Rocket said, looking at the device.

"Don't be so sure," said Peter. "It says they're fully adjustable for most sentient species."

"Yeah, well, I'm the only sentient member of my species, so guess I'm outta luck."

"Come on." Peter gave him a look. "You're telling me that a mechanical genius like you can't find a way to make this fit? You disappoint me, Rocket. I thought you could fix anything."

"Gimme that!" The raccoon snatched the headset away and headed down to the hold. "I'll let ya know when it's ready."

It took him less than an hour to cut the apparatus down to a size that would fit him. When he returned with it, his enthusiasm was only dampened by the fact that there was no way to fit a fifth player into the game.

"Sorry, Groot," he shrugged. "Well, you can be our fail-safe, then."

"Fail-safe?" Peter asked.

Rocket tapped the side of his headset. "There's a button that's supposed to bring you outta the game instantly. If it doesn't work-and this is new, so the bugs haven't all been worked out yet-ya need someone on the outside to trip the fail-safe and pull you out. Not literally; the wires go directly into your brain, so yanking them out suddenly could kill you."

"Maybe . . . this is a bad idea. I don't usually like playing games that could kill me."

"Relax! That doesn't happen all that often. Maybe one in a thousand players."

"One in a thousand," Drax pointed out, "is still one occurrence. One death. I would not want that one to be any of us."

"We'll be fine! Remember, Groot: if we don't come out of it on our own after about two hours, hit the red button right there." He pointed to a bright red button which was also helpfully labeled "FAIL-SAFE" in several languages.

"I am Groot."

"Okay, then." The raccoon looked around at the others. "Let's do this."

Peter adjusted the headset so that two of the points were positioned over his temples, the third in the middle of his forehead. Once he pressed the release, it would connect directly with his frontal lobe. For the first time, he began to get the feeling that maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

Or maybe that was just his dinner backing up on him again.

"I'll count down," he said. "Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . ."

And suddenly the world was filled with brilliant, blinding white light. It was like dying. Or being born.

Though he knew he probably shouldn't, Peter went into the light.

* * *

"_Star Prince_, you are cleared for landing."

Peter blinked and shook his head slightly. What the hell? He hadn't fallen asleep in the cockpit, had he?

"_Star Prince_, acknowledge."

The voice on the radio jolted him out of his confusion. "This is _Star Prince_. See you in a few, Bereet."

"You owe me a steak dinner, hotshot."

"And I'll make good on that, soon as I'm down."

There was another moment of confusion as the remnants of his daydream or vision or whatever lingered. For just a second there, Peter didn't recognize his own ship.

_It should be bigger, _he thought, _shouldn't it? And there were others here with me . . . a team . . . but I've always been a solo act. _

Images danced behind his eyes: ships zooming every which way, fireflies floating in the air, a beautiful green woman leaning in towards him, a small furry creature leaping up into a tree . . .

Then the runway rose up to meet him, and his body knew what to do even if his brain seemed to be in La-La land. He touched down in a perfect landing, and unbuckled as soon as the ship came to a complete stop.

"Great landing, sir!" Rhomann Dey, his flight tech, moved in immediately. "Absolutely textbook! Did I detect a bit of hesitation as you were coming down?"

"Just hated to leave the great black beyond, Dey. I'm fine." Another of those weird mental flashes shimmered just at the edge of his memory. _Did I call him a dick? Or did he call me a dick? No, if I did, he wouldn't be so glad to see me._

"Your mom's here," Dey told him.

"My . . . mom?"

"Yeah, she's in the hangar. Leave the ship to me. I got this bad boy."

Peter took off running, spurred by a rising feeling in his chest. Anticipation, mixed with a bit of nervousness, and . . . love.

She was standing by the door marked DIRECTOR'S OFFICE, and when he saw her, it felt like his heart might just burst out of his chest. "Mom!"

"Hello, Peter."

"Mom! You're-" _Alive _was the word stuck on the tip of his tongue, but he stopped himself. Of course she was alive. Why would he think she wasn't?

"What? Is something wrong, baby?"

"No! No, no, no!" He was laughing and crying at the same time. "Everything's fine! Everything's perfect!"

"Are you sure? You're acting like you haven't seen me in a year!"

"No, it's fine." He decided not to tell her about his dream or vision or whatever it had been. "I'm fine. I'm just glad you're here."

"Your dad's here, too."

"My dad?" _But I don't have a dad_, some deep part of his brain thought, followed immediately by _What are you talking about? Of course you do!_

"Good to see you, son." Yondu was sitting in the first row of visitors' chairs, his favorite red coat draped over the back. He stood when he saw Peter, extending his hand. "How'd she behave?"

"The light ship? Like a frolicking filly in a harvestime pasture!"

"I just love your colorful Terran sayin's!" He slapped the younger man on the back. "Less' go get somethin' to eat, huh? C'mon, darlin'," he said, slipping an arm around Meredith and surreptitiously grabbing her behind.

"I can't," Peter told him. "I promised Bereet I'd take her out for a steak dinner."

"Well, bring 'er along! The more, the merrier, right?"

"I think they want to be **alone**," Meredith said with a knowing look. "Especially if a particular piece of jewelry is involved?"

Peter blushed. "Yeah, maybe."

"Well, I hope she says yes." Yondu beamed at his adopted son. "She can do a lot worse, but she can't do any better, can she?"

"I hope she agrees with you."

"Good luck, son."

"I'll call and let you know how it goes. Right now I need a shower and a change of clothing. See you guys later, okay?"

He stopped by the office on his way out to fill out the usual paperwork, which didn't take long. He'd been a Nova Corps test pilot for almost ten years now, and he could fill out a flight report in his sleep.

As he entered his apartment, he reached up for the light switch . . . and it wasn't there. His questing fingers met empty air.

A moment later, he realized, _Oh, yeah, it's on the other wall, _and found it where it had always been. So why was he looking for it on the wrong wall?

Weird and weirder.

He stripped off his uniform as he headed for the shower, wondering if he was starting to go space-crazy. They said you didn't know when it happened, though, so maybe not. But something was sure as hell wrong with him. Maybe a stop in at Medical tomorrow morning?

Aahhhh. Nothing better than warm water over every inch of his body, running down his-

Someone was out there. He could see them through the curtain. He didn't know how they'd gotten in, since he was sure he locked the door (both doors, the outer door and the one to the bathroom), and he felt really creeped out now.

"Whoever's out there," he called, hoping they could hear him over the running water, "I am an officer in the Nova Corps, trained in several forms of hand-to-hand combat. You better leave now."

"Bullshit," said a voice that for some reason sounded familiar.

Peter reached up and shut the water off. He stuck his head out of the curtain and saw . . . no one.

"Down here, Star-Dork."

"Don't call me . . ." He looked down. A four-foot-high raccoon in a flight suit was standing on his bathroom rug, looking pissed. "What the hell?"

"He told me this would happen. You don't remember me."

"Remember you? I think if I'd met a talking raccoon, I'd remember it!"

"You still haven't told me what a raccoon is."

"It's what you are."

"Ain't nothin' like me-"

"-cept me," Peter finished. "Wait, how did I know that?"

"We've had this conversation before."

"Really? When?"

"In prison."

"But I've never been in prison before! Wait . . . I visited some prison on Carnaxia a few months ago. Was that it?"

The raccoon huffed an annoyed sigh. "No, it wasn't! Get dressed and then meet me out in your living room. I told Groot to wait for me there, since this room is about the size of a supply closet."

"You told **who**?"

"We'll fill ya in as soon as you're dressed!" The raccoon shook his furry head and left the room. Peter wrapped a towel around his waist and retreated to the bedroom, unsure what to do next.

_Well, that's it. I've cracked up. I should call someone-Medical? My parents? Bereet? Who?_

_Is it possible, is it just possible, that he's telling the __**truth**__?_

Hallucination, dream, delusion, whatever, Peter wanted to find out what was going on. He pulled on jeans, a gray T-shirt, and his red leather jacket, and went out into the living room to find the raccoon talking to a tree.

And the tree was talking back.

"Okay," Peter said cautiously, "you promised to tell me what this is all about. Who are you, how did you get in here, and . . . why is that tree staring at me?"

"This isn't real," the tree said, in a deep voice like wind on a dark night.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that. I was worried I was cracking up."

"No, no," said the raccoon. "He means this-" he waved a paw in the air-"isn't real. None 'a this stuff. You're not in the Nova Corps. You been on the run from those guys yer whole life. You, Peter Quill, are a Ravager."

"I'm a what?"

"Got the red coat and everythin'."

"Oh, this?" He glanced down at his jacket. "My dad gave it to me."

"I'll bet he did. Your brain is really somethin', Quill. A test pilot in the Nova Corps? Your mom's alive and married to Yondu, of all people? Your pathetic imagination couldn't even conjure up a facsimile of a rumor of your real dad, could it?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. How long have you been following me?"

"Long enough. You really don't know who we are?"

"No. Should I?"

"He's in too deep," the tree said. "Should have patched myself in days ago."

"What are you talking about?" Peter was completely lost now. "Who are you? How do you know me? Why are you following me? Wait, why am I asking my delusions all these questions?"

"Cause we're not delusions. This," the raccoon said, waving his paw in the air again, "alla this is the delusion. It's a construct built in game space by your subconscious. You're not really here."

"Well, then, where am I?"

"We're on your spaceship. The _Milano_. We put it in a parking orbit around some little planet while we played the game, expecting to be out in a few hours. But somethin' went wrong."

"They disabled the fail-safe," the tree said. "I tried to pull you out, and couldn't. So I came in after you."

"Who disabled what? I don't understand!"

"Okay, look." The raccoon started pacing back and forth. "We all live on your ship, you and me and Groot here and a couple other people we'll go pick up later. You got this game, Better Than Life, in the mail, and we all decided to play it. Now, how the game's s'posed ta work is this: you put the headset on, it beams the game right into your brain. Your brain then constructs a virtual world that looks and feels just like the real one. The thing is, you know it's a game, and you can pull out any time you like, just by pressing a button. But when **we **went in . . . it was different."

"You were there for days," the tree-Groot?-said. "Not eating, not sleeping, just playing the game. When a week had passed, I tried to trip the fail-safe to bring you out. Someone had disabled it, to keep you in the game, presumably till you died."

"Why would anyone want to do that?" Peter asked.

The raccoon shrugged. "We got lotsa enemies. Ronan supposedly had millions of followers, though none 'a them will admit to it now. Someone coulda tampered with the game to trap us there. The cowards. If you're gonna kill someone, just stick a blaster in their face and be done with it."

"So someone's trying to kill me . . . with a video game?"

"Basically, yeah."

"This is nuts! This is absolutely insane! I have a dinner date in half an hour-possibly the most important dinner date of my life-and I can't waste any more of my time indulging your insanity! Now please leave, both of you, before I call someone to have you removed." He went to the door and opened it, holding it open and staring at the two intruders pointedly.

"You moron," the raccoon said. "We're tryin' ta save your life here! You're not usually this stupid, Quill! You can't seriously believe that any of this is real! Deep down, you know we're tellin' the truth!"

"I know what's real and what isn't. This is my life. This is what's real. You guys . . . what you're telling me is just craziness. It can't possibly be real."

"You named your ship after some actress you were in love with when you were a kid!" the raccoon shouted at him. "Back on Earth, where ya grew up till Yondu and the Ravagers kidnapped you! We met on Xandar! You stole an orb and tried ta sell it, but the guy wouldn't make the deal once you brought Ronan's name into it! Then you met Gamora, who tried to steal it from you, and then Groot and I showed up, and then the Nova Corps took us in and shipped us to the Kyln! Any 'a this sound familiar yet?"

"Shut up! You're a delusion! I'm under stress, and I'm cracking up! Shut the hell up, Rocket!"

"Well, now, that's interestin', seeing as how I didn't tell ya my name yet. I didn't, did I, Groot?"

With a creak of branches, the tree moved in closer. "You know we're right. You must give up this dream, if you want to live."

"You don't usually talk this much, do you?"

"Oh, he talks all the time," said Rocket. "It's only in game space that ya can understand him."

"I . . . kind of remember something. You . . . build bombs?"

"Only when I'm bored. Besides, you asked me not to. Or at least, not to keep 'em on the ship. Like I'd be stupid enough to keep somethin' that dangerous right next to me. I took that mouthy toaster 'a yours and made it into an EMP device. Not active yet."

"There were others with us . . ."

"And we're gonna go get 'em, soon as we leave here. We had to get you first cause your weak little half-Terran body couldn't hold out much longer. Gamora and Drax, I'm not so worried about. They're strong enough to tough it out a little longer. But not too much longer. We gotta go, Pete. Now."

"Go where?"

"Knowhere."

"Why are we going nowhere? I thought you said they were in trouble!"

"No, **Knowhere. **It's a place. An' I think we've had this conversation, too. Just trust me on this, will ya?"

"Game time," said Groot, "is slower than real time. But there is still no time to waste. Come with us now. You entered the game together; you must leave together."

"Game . . ." Something was starting to come back to him now. "They sent the game by messenger-bot, with no return address. Why didn't I see that it was a trap?"

"I dunno. Can we go now? No time to waste, and all that."

"Wait a minute." Peter looked around his apartment, the place where he'd made his home for the last (four years? Five? How long was it?) few years, and discovered that he didn't remember anything about it. That photo of him with his mom . . . he didn't remember where or when it was taken. The jacket hung on the back of a chair, the blue one . . . he couldn't remember buying it. He didn't remember moving in, or picking out a color scheme, or anything.

_It's true, then. This isn't real. I've been trapped in a life-size video game for days, maybe weeks . . . but why? There has to be more to it than just 'someone wants to kill me'. What's going on here?_

"You comin'," asked Rocket, "or what?"

* * *

The hangar was deserted when they arrived. They abandoned the stolen ground transport outside the gate and ran inside, past the unguarded entry post, through the office wing, and onto the-

"Peter."

"Aw, crap!" Rocket swore when he saw who it was. "Pay no attention to her, Pete! We gotta go!"

But he had already turned around. "Mom?"

"Where you going, baby?"

"We have to go, um, save some friends of ours . . ."

"But you just got back! Stay a little while longer."

"I can't."

"Quill! Time to make like a polymorph egg and beat it!"

"Gimme a minute, guys." He looked at his mother, standing there, and then he looked back at Rocket and Groot, waiting anxiously for him, and he knew what he had to do. "I'm sorry, Mom. I have to go."

"You'll come back, won't you?"

"That's the thing . . . this isn't real. You aren't really here. Mom . . . you died, when I was eight years old. The night I was taken away, I lost you, and I've been alone ever since. So when I had the chance to bring you back, I took it, but you're not real. None of this is. And I don't want to say goodbye to you; that's why I ran that night. I couldn't face life without you there. But I'm not alone anymore. I have friends, who've been alone, too, and we're there for each other. But they're in their own imaginary worlds, and I have to go get them so we can all go home. Cause if we don't, we'll all die. And I want to see you again, but not this soon."

She reached out and put her arms around him. He leaned into her embrace, as soft and sweet-smelling as he remembered. That was all she was: a memory, recreated by his subconscious to keep him in this illusion. "You do what you have to do, then."

"I love you, Momma."

"And I love you, Peter. My little Star-Lord, all grown up."

"I hope I make you proud. In real life, I mean."

"I'll always be proud of you."

"Goodbye, Mom."

She let him go at last, and he walked away without a single glance back. It was ten times harder to leave her now than it had been when he was a boy, but it had to be done.

People were depending on him.

The lightship was parked at the end of the tarmac, and he took off running. No time for pre-flight checks now. Miraculously, the cockpit had expanded from a one-man fighter to a three-seater.

_Of course. This is all in my mind. I can make it do whatever I want._

"Everybody strap in!" he called out. "Excelsior!"

"What does packing material have ta do with this?"Rocket asked.

Peter laughed. "It means 'onward and upward'! Pretty good battle cry, don't you think?"

"Needs work."

"Whatever. Hang on, here we go!"

In an explosion of sound and fire, they broke free and headed for a place called Knowhere, not entirely sure what they would find.


End file.
